Young Writers Society

4047

December 15

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METH

THE DIM DAYLIGHT SHATTERED AGAINST THE FLOOR OF THE DORMITORY.

Finishing the process of patting his pillow into shape, Meth looked behind his back at Mescal, one hand fingering the place where one of his round, furry ears used to be on the right side of his head. Now there was only a flat stump.

“I hear you have a mission, Mescal.” Meth said quietly.

Blinking his light brown eyes that showed no white, Mescal nodded on his bed. Unlike Meth, his ears were furless and by the sides of his head. “Yes. I’m going on foot.” He scratched his back, and yawned, showing his sharp fangs. “I wish I could have breakfast.”

After taking a glance outside the window at the early morning sky, Meth nodded. “I’ll wake up Nico, Hash and Ampheta. You can go.”

Nodding and shaking his head lightly in order to chase away the remaining traces of sleep, Mescal jumped off his bed and landed on all fours. His spotted tail curled in the air. He straightened up, stretched, and walked out of the room. The door shut behind him softly.

When the sound of Mescal’s footsteps faded, Meth slid away from his own bed and padded toward the one right next to his. He reached out and took the white covers away from a sleeping figure. A second later, the woman’s yellow eyes with narrow black pupils snapped open.

Absently scratching at her two missing fingers on her right hand, Hash yawned loudly and chuckled under her breath in a desperate longing for sleep. “Meth, it isn’t even morning yet.”

“Early training.” Meth mumbled, and slowly slinked over to the next bed.

He opened his mouth, then closed it as if he had remembered something that had been hidden in the grasp of sleep. After a moment of silence, he reached out and shook the young man who was sprawled out on top of the comforter. When no response came back, he shook the man again.

Slowly, the man’s eyes slid open. Rubbing his eyes with one hand, he sat up, grinning weakly. His jagged scars on his neck and face were redder in the mornings. Meth patted Nico on the back, and gestured for him to get up with one hand, the other pointing at Mescal’s empty bed. He then pointed at the still dark sky outside the window and mimicked shooting a gun.

Nico nodded and set his brown and gray paws for feet on the floor. Meth turned away. His footsteps led him to the last bed that was full. He hadn’t noticed, yet there was a slim figure already sitting up on the bed.

Ampheta’s blue eyes with a drop of gray blinked at him slowly. Her tail that had only half of its full length tapped itself on the white sheets. Careful to not touch her temper, Meth opened his mouth to inform her. “Mescal’s on a mission. We’re on early training.”

“He’s always on missions.” Grumbling under her breath, Ampheta took her gaze away from Meth and jumped off the bed.

Sighing in a sense of accomplishment that came from the fact that he had managed to wake up the whole squad, Meth headed out the door himself.

Right outside the door, Marijun whipped his head toward him in mid-step, and the deep scar that had taken his right eye curved sharply in a smile. His talons scratched against the floor, and a pair of gigantic white and black wings shifted on his back.

“Meth.” He greeted. Meth nodded back.

“Good morning.”

After the greeting, Meth managed to press himself against the wall, just enough to let Marijun and his wings pass. After smiling at Meth in apology, Marijun half flew and half walked toward the direction of the training room.

Halfway to the training room himself, Meth ran straight into something feathery and round. His legs fell out from under him and he found himself on the floor. Surprised, he blinked. The first thing he saw were two gray and white wings, then gray hair accompanied by orange eyes.

“Sorry, Heroin.” Meth apologized, standing up with difficulty. His body wasn’t bending to his will after a few hours of sleep. “I wasn’t looking.”

Heroin shook her head wildly, finding her footings herself. She reached out, mouthing words so quickly that Meth found it difficult to make them out. As if she wanted to rip them out, she brought her fingers up to the faded stitch marks on her neck. Meth clapped her on the shoulder. “Don’t worry. Everyone’s drowsy in the mornings.”

Still looking terribly apologetic, Heroin scratched the top of her head and made a face at herself. Meth smiled at her in encouragement, and Heroin took a last look at him before jogging back to the dorms, her wings bobbing up and down behind her.

Fingering where his ear was cut off, Meth stepped into the training room through the heavy iron doors. It was a large, white and gray room, lit up with bright bulbs. Targets for guns and dummies for knife practicing were spread out evenly along the walls. Weights and other workout equipments such as heavy sand punching bags were in one corner. One wall had a small black door which led to the weapon storage room. The ceilings were high in consideration for the Flight Squad. Marijun was already in a corner, practicing the technique of dropping down on a grenade from the sky. With his eyes narrowed in concentration, Marijun got his arms ready to curl high up in the air. Along with a powerful stroke of his long, strong wings, he dropped down onto the floor without a sound and rolled up his body around a model grenade like a turtle’s shell in a second. His wings formed a firm, white and black cocoon around himself.

Over by the targets, Silo was shooting at a target as if it had wronged him personally. He was lying on his stomach on the floor, a pair of gray wings tucked against his body tightly, his long white hair tied back. He held a long hunting rifle in his hands, aimed and ready. His left eyesight was fading because of a poisoning, and the right eye had lost its ability nearly four years ago. Despite his condition, most of the bullets found its mark at the very center of the target.

Hash came into the room, stretching out her arms. She waved at Meth in greeting and sauntered over to the weights, cracking her knuckles.

Curling his tail around his hand, Meth slowly made his way over to the weapon storage room. Behind him, the punching bag screamed as someone punched it. His ears twitched.

The black door swung open to reveal countless types of guns, knives, grenades, and other weaponry on the wall. Without hesitation, Meth picked out a jagged hunting knife and spun it with a hand. He had always preferred knives more than guns.

Meth walked over to the cotton dummies, glancing at Marijun, who was still in the air. He frowned when Silo stood up, stumbling on the flat ground. He would need to force a doctor to look at his remaining eye soon.

The gray and silver blade cut a thin line on the surface of the doll when Meth ran it over it. Meth closed his eyes, and drew the blade back. He jammed it where it felt like the vital spot for the doll, then cautiously observed his work. The knife was cleanly impaling the neck of the doll.

“Nice, Meth!” Ket called down from above. Meth silently berated himself for not noticing her enter the room, and looked up. Ket was circling the ceiling, her unruly brown hair barely letting a glint of yellow show, as the only sign that she even had eyes. Her brown wings with white patterns barely moved as she swooped down, just enough for her talons of an owl to brush against Meth’s hair dangerously. “I still like revolvers more,” she chuckled before soaring up again.

Ignoring her comment, Meth began slashing at the dummy with one hand, the other up for defense. After a set of countless attacks, he jammed the knife into the dummy’s heart and then flipped straight over the dummy’s head with both hands. He landed on his feet silently, reached around the dummy and yanked out the knife. Eyes straining in focus, he cut the tendons of the feet. The opponent died.

The air moved in strong flows as Marijun landed on one foot gracefully right behind him. Taking in a deep breath, Meth glanced back at him. His heart-rate began to slow down into a normal pace. “Do you need anything?” Meth asked slowly, trying not to show how his breathing had escalated.

Wordlessly, Marijun took the knife from Meth’s hand. Meth backed up a step.

Just as Meth had been doing, Marijun began to slash at the dummy’s chest, precisely where Meth had slashed it. The marks got deeper. The dummy’s insides began to spill out. Marijun’s completely black eyes gave a hard glint as he jumped up and shoved the dummy back with both feet, his talons digging into the destroyed practice tool. His wings spread wide apart, and the wind that the action generated pushed Meth back a step forcefully. Faster than a blink, Marijun reached up with a single talon to rip open the dummy’s jugular. The sheer force decapitated the head, and the round, white ball of cotton dropped onto the ground.

“Go for the throat, Meth.” He said quietly, landing steadily onto the floor again.

Meth shrugged. “Only if I had talons. And wings.”

“No, I’m serious. You used to be the best at this. Now all you’re doing are useless attacks. A headless chicken can still run.”

Marijun handed the knife back to Meth, who rolled the blade around on his hand. His eyes journeyed far away in a split second. The sharp end of the knife cut a small slit on his palm. “A headless chicken…” He murmured thoughtfully, and cocked his head to the side, scratching at the cut off ear. His tail curled around his ankle like a whip about to strike.

Nodding almost to himself, Meth opened his mouth, brought his face down to the dummy’s left shoulder, and bit down hard. He ripped his face to the side, bringing the cotton arm with him. He spat it out. “Now wingless,” he concluded. A small smile found itself on Marijun’s face, and he took off into the air again, heading toward the targets.

Ampheta and Nico entered the training room, Ampheta making wide hand gestures for Nico to follow on. Nico nodded, a sharp ear on the top of his head twitching in thought. Ampheta tied her white hair back. They both headed toward the weights.

Meth was about to get another knife to hold in his other hand, when a thought stopped him. “Marijun!” He called up toward the high ceiling. Marijun circled once in order to show that he had heard it. “Where’s Toba?” he hollered again.

Instead of Marijun, Ket answered instead. “He’s still in the infirmary!” she yelled. “He’s got a bullet in him!”

Frowning, Meth gestured for Ket to come down lower, who obliged, circling down to the ground more and more until she balanced herself on top of the headless dummy.

“I never heard about a mission for the Flight Squad recently, or a bullet.” Meth stated more than questioned. Ket shrugged.

“I don’t know, Meth. I’m sure that Mescal, Marijun and Pey knew all about it. Why, are you jealous?”

Meth slowly shook his head. “No. Worried.”

“You should make yourself squad leader if you really want to know everything,” Ket smiled mischievously, and kicked off the dummy and into the air again, waving.

Drowning in thought, Meth turned his flittering attention back to the destroyed dummy, having already forgotten about getting another dagger.