Auxilio Egent

     The quaint groundskeeper’s cottage that had felt too large after Janice’s death was now stifling hot and much too small for Patrick Field’s liking. As a simple man who’d never longed for intrigue or life in politics, Patrick couldn’t believe that his young friend, Archel, the servant boy, was really a griffin, much less the new king. How in Mercury’s name did I get mixed up in this? Patrick wondered while staring at the trio blocking his doorway. Yesterday, the boy helped me bury Meranti in that open grave back of Sentinel. Today, I’m acting guardian and the boy’s my king. Oh, Janice. Would that you could tell me…what should I do? He sighed to himself and sat heavily into his recliner.

     “My help?” Santos asked in confusion.

     Archel answered, “the Kaiser trusted you. It’s a chance I gotta take, too.”

     “But…it’s true. You’re a griffin.”

Ne Omittamus

In order to watch each other’s backs, Locos and Machine sat on opposite sides of the small aluminum table in the middle of the main room of the bunker. No familial decorations adorned the gun metal grey walls. Behind Machine was a double bunk bed with each bunk attached by thick hinges riveted into the wall; the opposite ends were secured in place by two steel chains looped onto giant welded hooks that jutted out of the ceiling. The bunks were apparently made to rest flush against the wall when not in use. If the top bunk was put up, the bottom could be used as a couch or daybed.

     Every time Carmel reached across the table, Machine caught delicious whiffs of her light vanilla perfume as it mingled with the buttered honey nut bread. He watched Praline sashay around the kitchenette behind Locos. Out of one of the cabinets, she took mugs into which she poured shots of spiced rum while waiting for the coffee to percolate.

Atrox Animi

As in every Danian military building, pictures of President Scrub Thicket, Vice President Bonnie Peters, and the five regional CEOs adorned the wall opposite the main entrance. Commander Randle Dante, Sr. sat in the waiting room of Sanctuary City Medical Center. He wore his civilian clothes—a pressed grey polo tucked into starched black slacks with a thin black leather belt and polished steel-toed boots—as stiffly as he sat in the sea foam green chair. Draped in the seat next to him was a black trench coat, also in the seat was a grey canvas messenger bag topped with a plain black cap. He read through a stack of papers brought from Camp Polkner. Just because he’d been ordered for evaluation did not mean his work was done. The papers contained reports from every soldier involved in the incarceration and search efforts regarding escapee Kent Wheelock, AKA Prisoner 318.

     A wide-eyed young man, with a high-and-tight so high it was nearly a Mohawk, sat a few seats away drumming his fingers on the arms of his chair and alternating the bounce in both his legs. He watched a mute TV perched in the corner of the waiting room above a motivational picture of an enormous oak tree being struck by lightning, its caption read: POWER – With great power comes great responsibility.