What People Do
Metal ground over metal, screeching and spraying a wide fan of sparks across the polished floor. Limbs sawed at armored plates or gouged at optics. There were steady wines from taxed servos and straining steel supports. The rubber treads on tracks and feet left black marks in spots and arcs across the marble's mirror surface. It seemed as if an identical battle was being waged right below the combatants.
Light in many hues shone down from the huge stained glass dome that made up fully a third of the atrium's ceiling. The shapes of roses bathed them as they moved, shifting and turning, refracting and reflecting. Their polished metal bodies scattered the ceiling's red, blue and green light around the rest of the room. It glinted on the thick crust of gold that covered the wide balcony's balustrade. Shards of color spun across the heavy red drapes, intricately embroidered, that hung from the balcony like entrails. They caught on the fine silks and bright jewelry of the guests, who fluttered their fans or yelped in excitement as the two machines struggled across the open space before them.
The huge black marble tables had all been arranged in a semicircle around the periphery of the room. The guests were smothered in silks and heavy embroidered velvets. They were garnished with flowery white laces and jeweled rings and necklaces. Many were basted in sweat. Fine porcelain plates in front of each guest were heaped with greasy piles of dripping red meat. Heavy goblets were filled with thick red wine. The guests chewed mechanically, moving fat hands from plate to mouth without taking their eyes of the action. They chewed, mouths open, grease dribbling down their chins and soaking into their lacy, embroidered bibs and they watched the fighters with rapt attention. Mouths occupied, eyes fixed straight ahead, the only sound were the sounds of the two well-oiled machines attempting to destroy each other and the noisy chewing and slurping of the guests.
Servants in white silk tabards with roses embroidered in red, blue, green and gold scurried across the vast bulk of the assembly like little maggots on a corpse. They refilled plates and cups, dabbed at chins and replaced bibs, silent and unnoticed.
A liveried butler, all in black, slid silently up to the chair set at the apex of the arc of tables. He tapped the gentleman who sat in that chair on the shoulder and they both retired quietly from the room. The gentleman was Lord Fabian Salmatte, and this was his house. He had just been informed that his brother had come calling. Lord Fabian was short and very thin. He combed back the long whiskers on his narrow red and white muzzle. His fluffy brush waved from side to side in irritation as he smoothed down his heavily embroidered coat, all black and gold, and adjusted his wide brimmed hat that was piled high with lace and feathers. He was just pulling his white velvet gloves taut over his little black paws as he stepped into the nave where his brother was waiting. Although both of his eyes were golden, one consisted of an actual sphere of gold. Instead of an iris, it had little ruby rose petals that dilated and contracted over its tiny camera lens. a curving, thorny stem had been engraved across its surface. It, along with his natural eye, focused on his brother Tristan, as he stepped out of his manor's massive front door.
Tristan was taller and muscular, and his pelt was more brown than red. He stood, feet together, brush tucked tight against the seat of his jeans. His black paws fiddled with a baseball cap. His black ears twitched back against his skull as Fabian looked down at him from the top of the wide staircase leading down into his garden.
"You've lost a lot of weight," Tristan said.
Fabian grinned. The smell of charred meat wafted around him as the door was closed. He ran his narrow tongue across his front incisors.
"I know how hard it is to diet," Tristan continued after a moment of awkward silence. "It has to take a lot of will-"
Fabian cut him off with a wave of his hand. "I lost my guts," he said coolly, trying to dislodge a gobbet of meat from his back molar. "It must have been, oh, a few months ago," he dabbed at his lips with a handkerchief, "The cybernetics are, of course, top of the line." His eyes narrowed. "Let's not waste time, though. You need money, but I have grown tired of giving it to you."
Tristan's tail bristed as he looked up at his brother. "I'm only asking for a loan. We just had a bad season at the farm. You know I've always paid everything back to you. Even if it takes a while, you'll get your money back." He waved his cap in the general direction of the manor, "Not even very much this time, you won't even notice its gone."
Fabian yawned behind the fountain of silk that spilled from his sleeve. "Ask a bank."
Tristan's muzzle snapped together with a sharp click. He spoke from between his teeth. "You know I can't do that. You know I don't have another option."
"Have I made life difficult for you brother, because our name has an unenviable reputation? Are you upset, because of the way I choose to live my life? Because I choose to cut right to the core of things? How I live is how animals have always lived, and make no mistake, brother, we are nothing more than animals, no matter how sophisticated we seem."
Tristan's ears were still laid back, but in anger. His eyes narrowed. "What do you want?" The words seemed forced from him, drug out syllable by syllable.
"It won't be a loan, you understand," Fabian said, "it will be a purchase. I would say a fair market value would be around thirty thousand." he waved his paw in vauge circles.
"What do you want?" Tristan's expression had softened, but only slightly.
"I think I'd like to have your heart." Tristan's ears pitched forward in shock. "I don't know if you know, but I've recently lost mine. I bet it on a whim, but it was a sure thing. When I saw Duke Falmoth enjoying it so heartily, I knew I had to try one. I am told no one has a finer heart than a Salmatte. Of course, with the cybernetic, there is no more worry about cholesterol."
"Why?" asked Tristan, his lips pulled back in a pained grimace, "Why not just loan me the money? Why go through all this sick shit? Hell, it would be cheaper for you to just give it to me. I'm your brother for fuck's sake. Why all these fucked up mind games? Don't you people have something better to do with your time than butcher each other?"
Fabian only looked down at him, the jeweled petals on his metal eye glittering in the sunlight.
"Follow me."
He motioned for his brother to follow as he disappeared inside. They walked down his long foyer, lined with large, gilded landscape paintings and low, overstuffed lounge chairs. They quickly picked up a tail of butlers and minor servants, opening doors and putting a thin-stemmed champagne flute in each of their hands. As they walked, through several galleries and up a flight of stairs, Fabian explained.
"Our main entertainment comes in the form of a wager placed by Duchess Seriseil against her husband, the Duke. He has bet his poorest-serving butler against her laziest maid. Although there are, of course, the all-important personal wagers, the outcome of the Seriseil's wager will give entertainment to everyone. Observe."
They stepped out onto the long balcony that ran the circumference of Fabian's atrium. The scene below had devolved into chaos. One of the machines lay in a smoking heap, and the stench of ozone almost overpowered the strong smell of meat, spices and sweat. A huge metal dish had been placed in the center of the arc of tables and the cover lay on the floor nearby. A bed of frilly lettuce and cherry tomatoes had been laid down on it, and on that had been laid the bound form of what had apparently been the Duke's servant.
He used to be a raccoon who was secured to the dish by a chain harness that ran over his waist and under his armpits. A heavy collar kept his head from moving and protected his throat.
The guests had converged on him with knives and forks, several of which could still be seen protruding from his body. His arms and legs were red ruin and gobbets of flesh lay scattered over his chest and stomach. Someone had pulled out some intestines. Cherry tomatoes and lettuce were scattered all over the table and floor. Arcs, handprints, drips and splatters of browning blood were liberally distributed across the entire scene. The guests lay around in various states of undress, smeared with blood, their finery torn and stained. They groped one another, greasy bodies heaving and panting as they rutted, barking and mewling as their reflections stared up at them with glazed eyes. A few were scattered here and there, dozing or watching the action still in progress. One rather large wolf held a bleeding arm close to his side, snarling and shifting his eyes from one guest to the other.
"That would be Lord Crowley," said Fabian, pointing him out. "Feasting like this always gets the blood up. Nothing goes better with this sort of food than sex. Some folk, though, they get carried away. Crowley always tries to fuck the meat, rather uncouth behavior. Someone probably stabbed him a little."
Tristan wasn't entirely sure what he should say. He watched in silence as a youngish vixen crept quietly up to the body on the tray. He saw a pair of bloody handprints smeared across the fur of her small breasts. Her dress hung in tatters around her waist. She grabbed the cheek of the raccoon on the table between her teeth and began to pull. His cheek stretched out a couple of inches and his head was pulled to the side. She braced both paws against his muzzle and jerked her head back repeatedly. Tristan could see the muscles in her neck straining. Then, the raccoon began to scream. Like a man dumped into a tub of water, his eyes shot open and he flailed the worthless remains of his limbs. Tatters of skin flapped wetly from his stumps, and more blood was cast liberally over all assembled. There was a sound like wet fabric being torn, and then the vixen was away with her prize, tearing the meat from the back of the hide with little bites.
"I've seen enough," said Tristan, turning away. He began walking to the exit.
"I ate her uterus just a few days ago," Fabian said, following a couple of paces behind. "The individual bets, they aren't done in so chaotic a fashion. A nice table, a quiet room. It is generally considered good form to wait for the surgical anesthetics to wear off before one begins to dine. The truly magnanimaous will allow the loser to reclaim a little bit of their own flesh," he paused, considering, "I must say, the bites I've gotten so far-"
Tristan cut him off with a low groan, increasing his pace. "I don't want to hear any more of this horrible shit, Fabian. What I've seen today will haunt me for the rest of my life. You are a bastard, a grade 'A' bastard, and there is no excuse for what you do. There is so much misery, so much pain and suffering already in the world. Why do this? What possible purpose can it serve to torture and mutilate innocent people for your own entertainment?" He stepped out trough the massive doors, into the sunlight of the garden. Fabian stood just inside the shadows of the hall, the soft orange light from his chandeliers making him seem fuzzy, indistinct.
"I will tell you brother. There is no reason but this: We are animals, and this is what animals do. This is the core of our nature. Whenever we can, however we can, we spend our time and resources waiting for the opportunity to devour one another."