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Aster

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He liked it up there. It was quiet. Brimming with silence--immeasurable silence. The wind at his back was less a sound to be heard but more a feeling to be felt, an embrace to be accepted, and it served to comfort and carry other disruptions toward the object of his scrutiny, the city of Aster. Such a beautiful name for such a terrible place--full of life and lights, sounds and sorrows, riches and wretches--a tyrannical, self-perpetuating machination of industrialization, fueling its grinding gears with ten-fold-bastardized hopes and dreams ripped from the purposeless people struggling to surface above the madness for just a moment, for just a brief glimmer of the real ambiance and the fresh air of the world outside, followed by the realization that these moments were temporary trifles to be discarded once terminated by the all-consuming, inescapable life that was the city of Aster. Its skyscrapers rose like monolithic sepulchers, a grim remembrance of those fed to its furnace, and as two-toned a town as Aster was, so did the colors of it's people follow. One was either too debt-stricken to flee or, rarely, too intoxicated with wealth to take the opportunity.

Thus, the problem that was Aster perpetuated. There were ruling presidents. There were greedy capitalists. There were rioting revolutionaries, and there were criminal overlords. But, there was no solution to this particular assembly of chaos because there was no clear problem. There was only Aster. An unstoppable system, optimized with dangling opportunities for the common people, promising a chance at a life unimaginable. These promises spurred competition, and competition needed competitors. And when they came, bringing billions in currency and millions of innocents with them, they fought until they found that no one could win. No one could beat Aster. Their desire to outdo one another had created a monstrous metropolis before their very eyes, one in which those who refused to endlessly strive against one another for rapidly dwindling rewards would be crushed, ground down into mere shades left to lie in the streets, penniless and soulless--too tired to plead. Those millions, generations of the past, present, and future, were shackled by the most invisible, unbreakable bonds ever placed on living beings. The city coursed with them. It pulsed with tiny lives, miniscule existences--like the boiling blood of a magnificent demon chained to the desert's cracked sands. Fifteen million people, a writhing mass of concealed tortures and muted cries, trapped in the most efficient prison, pushed through clogged veins. These inmates knew not their crimes nor their punishment; they knew not their jailors nor they their captives.

But, Aster knew.

That scar of steel and noise and concrete knew what it was, knew what it made those at its glistening crown and those dwelling at it's rotting feet. It had built itself to house the innocent, and it had succeeded. It turned people into monsters; it used the few to tighten its hold on the many. Its inhabitants worked and worked and worked. They wanted more jobs, more success, more money. There was no room for joy, for sorrow--for conscience. They strove for more striving, and when death approached, they would look back at the gears which had crushed them and look forward to the furnace which would consume them. Such was the game. Such was Aster.

Aster

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"I kill people, Atticus." A black cat, brandishing a glass of cheap whiskey, spoke plainly as he slid another, full glass to the all-white tiger across from him. The two felines sat at a small table, in a small dining area, in a small apartment. "I kill people, and so do you." He extended one claw toward the feline on the other side of the table and continued, "We kill people because it's what we do. We could be working the office--hell, we could be working from home. Maybe, life is hard and sometimes the dice don't roll like we want 'em to...we end up here. Other times," he sipped from his glass, "...other times, we get tired of gettin' the run-around. All day, every day. Wakin' up, goin' to work, makin' crap money so we can live to fight another day in this frickin' city. Eatin', fuckin', sleepin', and repeatin'. Am I right? An' maybe, after a few years of that, we choose this life...we end up here, again. You get what I'm sayin'?" The white tiger, calm as death, had not touched the glass of whiskey given to him.

"Come on, Atticus, we know each other. We got a connection here. We kill people because it's our damn job. No normal person could just do_that. I mean, me? Ah, hell..." the black cat finished his glass in a single gulp and swayed in his seat before groaning, obviously drunk. "Ah, I suppose...what I'm gettin' at here, is, I guess, why do you do it? Why do you do _your job?" The white tiger blinked once. Then, he spoke, "Let me see your gun, Frank." The black cat's ears stood erect. "Wait...what?" "I said, 'Let me see your gun,Frank.'" There was some irritation hanging on his last word. "Why the fu--?" "Do you want to know why I do my job?" "Yea...I gues--" The thud of Atticus dropping his pistol on the table startled the black cat. "On the table, Frank. Just like mine."

The black cat sluggishly removed his gun from his pants and placed the loaded pistol next to Atticus'. "Alright, there ya' go. Now, go on, tell me why." Atticus let a thick silence build in the air before he spoke, "Do you know why I'm here?" "'Cuz you wanted to talk, right? Just like on the phone..." the black cat's voice trailed off. "No, Frank, that's not why I'm here." A faint light in Frank's eyes seemed to extinguish itself, "Oh..." Atticus stood from his seat and calmly made his way to the other side of the table; both of his paws were covered with thin black gloves. "Frank, what's the rule?" "It's...uh...it's..." He was starting to choke on his words; he was having trouble speaking through the nervous pressure building in his throat and chest. "What is the one thing_we are _always supposed to do, Frank? What is that rule?" Atticus' voice was more intense. "Never...um...never leave a witness..." "Good answer. I'll ask again: why am I here?"

"Aw, come on! Cut the shit, Atticus! She was a little girl--a _cub,_damnit! What was I supposed to do?" The black cat hung his head, tears welling in his eyes. Atticus slowly placed his covered paw on the cat's shoulder, "She went to the cops, Frank; they know all about you now. And with a rap sheet like yours, they'll probably just kill you. And if they don't kill you, the Bureau will; they'll make it hurt." Tears dripped from Frank's muzzle into his empty glass. "It's either me or them, Frank. Come on, you know how this works. You've been here before--where I'm standing now." The black cat choked on sadness.

"I don't wanna' die."

"Shouldn't have chosen this line of work."

"Don't let my mom find out about me...about what I did."

"I can't promise that, Frank."

"Make it look like an accident."

"Suicide, that's what it'll look like."

"Damn..."

"Yea. 'Damn' is right."

The two felines existed in silence for a little longer before Atticus sighed, "Offices. I hate 'em. That's why I do this job." Frank looked up at Atticus with a slight smirk forming on his face, "I knew you were that type..." It was only what the black cat wanted to hear. Frank sat up in his chair as best as he could; he closed his eyes. Atticus grabbed Frank's gun from the table and held it perpendicular to the black cat's temple. It felt strange in his hands, it was too light--probably had an easy trigger too. "Atticus..." "Yes?" "Do me one favor...at least, don't tell me whe--" BAM.

A flash of fire.

A sharp report.

A wounded silence.

"Sure." Atticus spoke softly, carefully placing the smoking weapon in Frank's limp paw. The black cat's body was sprawled on the floor; his blood soaked into the cheap apartment's floorboards, seemingly causing his dark fur to glisten in the poorly lit room. There was something symbolic about Frank's still-twitching body. As the traces of life drained from the it, Atticus' mind was filled with the one word, freedom, but it was quickly overtaken by another, business. The white tiger replaced his pistol inside its holster and scanned the scene for any evidence. He picked up a single folicle of his fur from the table and placed it in his suit pocket. He looked over the space again. The whiskey glass Frank had passed him was still on the table. Atticus slid the glass over to Frank's side. Not a trace. This was now a suicide.

The tiger exited through the front door of Frank's apartment and stood for a moment in the hall. He lit a cigarette and let the smoke fill his muzzle. As he turned to walk to the stairs, a door from one of the other apartments creaked open, and a female canine peered out from the doorway. She called to Atticus, "Hey...Hey!" He stopped, but he did not turn to see her. She spoke loudly, "Did you hear that bang? Didn't you hear that?" "Hear what?" "That bang...it was so loud..." Without waiting for her to continue, he walked to the stairs and left the building. Once outside in the cold air, the white tiger removed his gloves and placed them in his suit pocket. The dense noise of the Aster's streets now filled his ears. Even at midnight, people were racing about, desperate to spend what little money they made in what little free time they had. Atticus stood a few yards from the entrance of the building, leaned up against it's cheap stuccoed facade, and puffed his cigarette once more before tossing it down one of the city's sewer drains. For five minutes he watched the crowds struggle against each other, cars' horns blaring and drivers cursing. People pushed past one another, arguing amongst themselves. But, soon the crowds were split apart as police cruisers and trucks began to arrive at the building. Special units with shotguns and tactical gear poured out of the vehicles and into the apartments, while normal officers began clearing the area around the building.

A young detective, a fox, walked up to Atticus and began nervously, "S-Sir, you've got to move...uh...for your safety...ehem...we're locking down the Views for a while--ah, several hours." Atticus said nothing for a moment; he wanted to see if the fox would assert himself. After a few seconds of tense silence between the two, Atticus smiled and replied, "My apologies, officer. Have a good night." With that, he began walking away from the building, flashing blue lights painting the frantic world around him. A coarse, cold jungle of metal and artificiality transformed momentarily by the absurd dance of justice, a moment too late to leave its mark--a moment too late to matter.

Atticus was glad that he had the chance to catch up with Frank on this night. He had missed him.