The Contract

Altan Skai's home is not much. Its stone walls keep him and his possessions in close quarters, but he has made the desk, the paper, pens, pencils, erasers, and books work well with his thin cot, small bathroom, trashcan and radio. The desk he purchased for six hundred packs of tobacco leafs may be cramped, but at least it has drawers, which is where he keeps writings and pictures, as well as numerous magazines of questionable nature. The magazines are used strictly for references since the articles are -in his own opinion- absolute garbage. The books he has stacked on his desk are of much better quality, even though they are in languages that are not his own. But, as he has learned, writing letters or drawing pictures are great ways to exchange language lessons.

On the note of exchanges, he is not overly critical of his neighbors. Some are good. Some are bad. And those that are beyond bad usually don't last long when they get in front of him. Case in point: Today.

It had just been another day trying to get breakfast and stretch his legs from his small compartment of an abode when a gang tried to take his oatmeal. The whole incident is actually a real life example of an old Altain proverb: “Never get in between a griffin and their food. Ever.”

It is a proverb that his assailants never heard, and they paid dearly for it. Although, Skai did feel bad for the rock he had to us. It was just minding its own business when it got involved, and luck had been on his side since the resident peacekeepers managed to stop the fight before it spread, and now Skai is back home in his cell, etching another tally mark on his wall using what's left of his dull talon, his stomach tight and face twisted to a sour expression due to a lack of breakfast.

The tally marks that desecrate the stone walls stretch from the floor to the ceiling, and bleed out. The marks reach the tattered cot and bunch up at the solid metal door, and they circle the lone light bulb around the ceiling.

After adding the tally mark, Altan Skai huffs and stands back, staring at his work with dim, yellow eyes with his wings cuffed to his sides. His old, frail frame is covered in bandages that are tainted with streaks of red, and his grayed blue fur and golden tipped feathers are still covered in dirt and ruffled.

His distant gaze is brought back to reality when a trio of metallic bangs ring from his door, and a quick sideways glance shows him that an ibex guard is peeking in. The eyes are familiar, so the griffin eases himself on his cot, flashing a quick wave

“Gueten Morgen, Horn,” says the griffin.

“Gueten Morgen, Skai,” says the guard, Horn. “I heard you had another fight in the courtyard with some of the locals.”

Skai shrugs. “We can call it that.”

“Well because of your fight someone wants to speak with you.”

“I already spoke with the Warden.”

“It's not the Warden.”

“Then who is it?”

“I don't know. But you know the drill.”

Skai reluctantly slides off his cot, sighing, and patiently stares at his marked wall. Shortly after, two sets of hoofs and sets of clanking metal enter, followed by snaps and tight pinches on his limbs. He instantly feels the weight of the chains, and when another familiar ibex guard slides next to him and clamps a collar around his neck, Skai forces a smile.

“Wilkes,” says Skai.

“Skai,” says the leasher.

“How are the wife and kids?”

“Doing well. Comfy?”

“Always.”

“Good.”

And then one firm tug leads to Skai following the guards out.

Several minutes later, Skai finds himself sitting in a cold concrete room. His hind legs are cuffed to the floor, his wrists are anchored to the metal table, and his rump is resting on an admittedly comfortable cushion. Of course anything is better than his flimsy cot and the comfort of the cushion would have been better if the temperature was not so low. But Skai keeps his beak shut. He is used to this treatment and has reminded himself that if he can lay in snow for ten hours he can sit in a cold room for four.

Even though the room is bare, he still look around and taps the table with his dull talons. His digits are slightly bent and scars crisscross their surface like cracks on a glass, and his old bones ache from the cold, but he gives them no satisfaction of whining.

More slow minutes tick by.

Skai's only sense of time is determined by the clanking cooler next to him. Its several minutes of humming will break with the rattles and clanks, and a puff of cold air will blast on his back. His thinning fur and trapped feathers will ruffle in a pitiful attempt to keep him warm, his eyes will twitch slightly and his jaw will set, but he still keeps quiet.

There are twelve cycles of humming, clanking and puffing before the door opens and a fairly young ibex in a thick dark blue suit enters, carrying a saddlebag full of folders. There is a lightness in his steps, an easy smile on his face, and his gray-blue coat is something Skai was not expecting to see on an ibex. When the newcomer is at the table, he places the folders across from Skai, takes the time to line the edges together, and then he down, takes a long, happy breath and smiles at the imprisoned griffin.

“Hi,” says the ibex.

“Eh... Hi,” says Skai.

“Sprichst du Bernerese?”

“Ja,”

“I know. Silly question. Anyway, my name is Ozean, and I was wondering if you liked freedom?” says the goat.

Skai shrugs. “I don't know. I heard it was nice, though.”

“Oh, it is, and luckily for you I can give it to you, but before I do that, I'm curious as to how aggressive you think you are. On a scale of one to ten, how aggressive are you?”

“Zero.”

“Zero?”

“Zero.”

“Bashing your fallen opponent's head in with a rock until their brains pop out is zero?”

“When you put it that way you make it sound like a one. I really am a nice guy. A pacifist, actually.”

Ozean nods. “A pacifist with a knack for words and doodles and the occasional burst of overkill?”

“Mhm.”

“A coffee shop griffin, basically. You've done some executions before, haven't you?”

“Look,I don't want to be rude, but I'm a busy griffin. I'm getting paid eighteen tobacco leafs to make a picture for some guy. So, can we wrap up whatever this is, please?”

“Some guy?”

“Yeah, Rick. Cell block D. Very nice guy. I'd hate to keep him waiting.”

“Does Rick hospitalize whole gangs over the course of six months? Or is he a lonely sap who loves your erotica pictures?”

Skai's eyes narrow, and his talons dig into the table. “What do you know about the fights?”

Ozean hums and bobs his head this way and that, eyes rolled up in thought.

“Well,” he says, “nothing too much. I mean, I did offer those gangsters early releases if they managed to cripple or kill you, but that's about it.”

Skai's eye twitches, and a growl rumbles in his throat as he leans towards Ozean.

“Why?” asks Skai.

Ozean shrugs innocently. “Why not? I mean, you served in the Grabitel Division during the Altai-Bernese War and later went rogue to get some extra cash. Killed quite a bit to go nowhere, but, hey, look on the bright side, the blood lust is still there and because you impressed me you get to have your life sentenced reduced! Isn't that great?”

Skai's feathers ruffle in their clamps and his thinning fur bristles as he inhales and flexes his talons without taking his eyes off Ozean's insufferable smile.

“You're obviously a shadow. I don't deal with shadows,” says Skai.

“But I want you to be free,” says Ozean. “Don't you want to be free?”

“You're bullshitting me.”

Ozean shakes his head. “Nope. I'm being honest with you.”

"An 'honest' shadow put me here."

"And this shadow will get you out."

Skai taps the table with his talon. “I have been here for thirty years and now you want me free?”

Ozean scoffs lightly and leans towards Skai. “Come on, be fair. I am younger than you. I was actually born right after the War ended, so how can I get you out if I'm some kid in school or a new-blood in the government? It just doesn't work like that.”

“There's a catch.”

“Of course there is, and I know you can do it.”

Skai sinks into his pad, shaking his head.

“Find somebody else. I won't be your puppet,” he says.

“But being a puppet is fun,” says Ozean.

Skai cranes his neck to look over Ozean's shoulder. “Guards, I'm done!”

The door opens up and Horn and four guards enter. When they begin freeing Skai from the table Ozean sighs and shakes his head in theatrical disappointment as he steps away, leaving his folders on the table.

“I guess Arnica Camomile will die alone,” says Ozean.

Skai stiffens and the guards stop and look between the two.

“What?” says Skai, his voice heavy and his eyes hardening.

“It'll be tragic if Arnica dies alone. She is a very nice griffin and has aged very well,” says Ozean, coolly inspecting his hoof. “She's still healthy, still living in Corcus, which is still the same quiet, small village on the outskirts of Altai. But she is very much alone and living a sad, miserable life, but if you don't want to brighten her day then I can always send another griffin her way. Maybe they can explain why you chose to stay here instead of going back for her.”

Ozean moves to collect his belongings, but Skai's rocky expression crumbles to panic and he holds out his talons to Ozean, calling him and ignoring the pain of the jerking chain and the barking guards. But before anything more can be done, Ozean holds up his hoof and orders them to stand down, and he meets Skai's pleading eyes with a wolfish smile of his own.

“That was fast,” says Ozean.

“I will do what you want. Just don't hurt Arnica,” says Skai.

“Hurt her? Why would I do that? I mean, the other griffin might when he does your job, but-”

Skai lunges again, and the guards shout and tug him back, and Horn jabs the griffin in the side with a baton. Electric currents burn their way into Skai's veins and tighten his muscles, and he collapses, wheezing and glowering at Horn, all while Ozean calmly strolls to Skai's side.

“Altan Skai, look at me,” orders Ozean.

Skai snarls at Ozean, but remains wordless.

“Do you want to be free? Yes or no?” asks Ozean.

Skai swallows and hoarsely replies: “Yes.”

“Do you want to see Arnica again?”

Skai nods. “Yes.”

“You can have both, but the price of freedom is submission. You submit to me and complete the job and I promise you that you will be returned home,” says Ozean. “Do we have a deal?”

Skai takes a deep, ragged breath, then nods. “What do I have to do?”