Locked in a prison cell, a collection of gigantic wooden barrels with metal bars as doors and a small window each, Ghilo lay flat on the floor as he stared at the lone candle atop the beam of the wooden ceiling. His red eyes were unflinching just like the flickerless flame. He clung onto what was left of his tattered red necktie.
Ghilo's mind was a numb circus. He replayed the events that had happened countlessly even when he didn't want to, even in his dreams. The actions he took to survive and what merited justice for his fallen friend haunted him. He himself was unsure which way his actions tipped, if he had regretted the violence he exhibited or if his friend was vindicated by it.
But if anyone would ask him for a straight answer, all he knew in his heart was that Carwen didn't have to die like that.
A jangle of keys took Ghilo's attention. The cell door creaked open and with each step of the visitor, the hollow sound of a cane filled the wide cell.
Raloc stood before Ghilo. His eyes, full of care and promise before, now had that biting stare of pity and condemnation. Even after Linking with Ghilo to view what had transpired, he couldn't accept the violence his student succumbed to. The iron rules of the Hopsch would not bend now.
"Did you know, Ghilo? Timekeepers that defied the rules are banished from their Burrows." Raloc spoke as his eyes wandered elsewhere in the dim cell. He hurt deeply too. "Thank Time you aren't one yet. Must've been for the best."
"What's gonna happen with me?" Ghilo mustered the courage to ask.
Raloc lowered his head and rubbed his hands over the cane's top. It was something he never thought he'd have to address. But he made up his mind right then and there. He cleared his throat and said, "For now, stagnation and a torturous reflection."
"Stagnation…" said Ghilo lifelessly. "Isn't that what we're all doing?"
"What are you saying?!" Raloc's raised voice thundered and echoed within the cell.
"I don't agree with a lot of what Binsten wanted but maybe just hiding in a hole isn't such a smart thing to do either." Ghilo, unfazed by Raloc's outburst, continued. "A balanced diet maybe."
Raloc was fuming. He didn't have to listen to the ramblings of a shameful student. Having said Ghilo's penance, he was about to stomp off to the exit but noticed the red necktie he gave him. He, hand wide open, crouched down to get it back.
Ghilo embraced it tight and kept it safe in a fetal position. He closed his eyes and cried out, "No, please! It's just cloth now! It's not even a necktie, Grandmaster Raloc! Please!"
Raloc hesitated but eventually recalled his hand and headed for the cell door. He stopped and without looking back, said, "Don't you ever wear that anymore… Be grateful you weren't made an outcast."
The door banged shut and that was the last Ghilo saw of Raloc.
Ghilo's youthful years passed. His whiskers grew long and his face rugged. His cheeks were sunken. Meals were given periodically but Ghilo hardly had the stomach for food. The only exception was on his birthday which he'd always ask for pie. Other than that highlight each year, a bitterness festered in him, especially towards Bluntfoot and the Hopsch's ways. He couldn't care less and even spat at the children who mocked him by the window chanting Ghilo the Bimbo.
Stagnation was a lengthy poison.
No one came to visit, not even Ghilo's mother and father who disowned him since the incident. No news of the war was ever told to him but he noticed that dust from the ceiling hardly fell to his face. The earthquakes had long stopped. He couldn't remember when it did.
Finally, a sound that Ghilo had forgotten since his captivity rang in his ear. The unmistakable sound of a jangle and a creak pried his red eyes open. He squinted at his rare visitor but all he could see was a silhouette behind the blinding glow of a torch. A red scarf was thrown at him.
The Hopsch who opened the door spoke, "You're being assigned an indefinite position with the humans. Transport leaves in an hour."
Ghilo stood up and in his hand was a dirty patch of red cloth, the last remnant of his old necktie. He grabbed the scarf off the ground and asked, "Who the hell gave this? Wait. The humans? You're sending me above ground?"
The guard shrugged, "Who knows? I'm just the guy who was sent to give it and tell you to get the hell out of Bluntfoot."
Ghilo didn't understand at the time, what had changed since then. It was the fruit of the recent Gromal Treaty where the Hopsch offered their assistance and accumulated knowledge to other races in the hopes of rebuilding the future and becoming the bridge to sustain a healthy relationship between each race.
But at the moment, since years had passed him by his incarceration, Ghilo didn't care. He was just happy the door was left unlocked.
Ghilo stood in front of the ladder. The ceiling torn by a dragon's tail was repaired but small cracks and holes were enough for light to escape in. Hopsch weren't exactly known for their construction expertise.
Pieces of sunlight shone down on Ghilo. He dropped his shoulder bag and felt the warmth. It almost brought a smile to his face. He looked at the Gate Watcher at his right and for a brief moment, thought he saw Carwen. He shook his head then muttered, "Of course he's gone…"
Then while lost in thought, just meters away from the ladder, Ghilo saw a glint. He approached it and saw that it was the shotgun that had fallen from the sky. It was rusted, covered in soil and embraced in an overgrowth of foliage.
Ghilo bent down before the shotgun and spoke to it like an old friend, "You're still here, huh?"
-----
The year was 2120. New Tokyo was a busy city. It was a collection of hexagon platforms erected on Tokyo Bay. Three railways stretched outwards from the station at the center of the city, across the calm waters.
What rested in the wake of the old Tokyo was a massive crater, a prominent vestige from The War and a reminder of the fragility but also the persistent strength of humanity. From the wreckage and ashes, life resumed.
In Block A-2, one of the workforce districts, there was a large boxy building. It was supposed to be grand but turned out to be as an average attempt at a minimalist approach. Funds were spent and there was no turning back now. It stood at the corner of an intersection amidst tireless streets; where most motivation came from the rejuvenation of a city lost. Its many glass panels, once pristine blue, were mucked and faded by the grime of time. Thankfully, matte black was the choice color for the walls. While some people thought black hid dirt better, others thought that, in the case of the police force, it was very apropos.
Within the New Tokyo Police Department, there were elevators in the lobby. Within each one, there was a button at the very bottom of the panel that looked as clean as the first day it was installed. B2. Rumors were that it was haunted. The impish ones would cajole others into pressing the button of the infamous floor. They were quickly reminded that they were here to work, not play. Others in the elevator simply avoided it; too scared to find out. In any case, silly superstition had no place in a police uniform.
A dusty and desolate hallway greeted whoever passed the metal doors to floor B2. The first ceiling light flickered which added to the horror story's flavor. But if one found the courage to get past the tall tales, one would find a door with a dirty glass pane that read: Department of Cold Cases.
In the room, Ghilo sat on stacked files with a floral teacup in his hand. He had grown plump through the years of living above ground. Food was a fascination for the Bluntfoot Hopsch and in particular, what he had in his hands. Earl Grey tea in one, and a forked generous portion of lemon pie which found its place in his bulging cheeks. He placed his cup back on the saucer then dusted off the crumbs on his red scarf.
Ghilo spoke with his mouth half-full, "Where was I? Oh, yes! The shotgun! It wouldn't fire! I don't wanna say anything bad about human inventions and engineering but you'd think it would work when you're counting on it, right?"
A grunt came from across the desk. An old man, with clean cut grey hair and a scruffy beard, readjusted his black framed glasses. His shoulders lurched as he continued typing on his computer. His face was close to the screen with a scrunched chiseled face and squinted blue eyes. He was tall and more than fit as a fiddle for someone in his late-fifties. Annoyed and frustrated, he muttered, "Why the hell can't I write reports with the caps lock on…"
Ghilo rested his arms on top of the monitor and his crumby paws tapped the screen twice. He wasn't amused. "Hey. I'm pouring my heart out here. Did you even listen to my story, Robert?"
Another grunt but a less enthusiastic one, came from Robert. He finally noticed Ghilo and shooed him away. "Would you get off the monitor? You're no light fluff of fur, you know?"
"But did you listen?"
"Wha- Yeah, yeah." shrugged Robert. He went back to clattering the keyboard. "Something about that shotgun you're fond of. Now stop bugging me and stop stuffing your face with all the damn snacks. Those are meant to last a week. Not an afternoon damn it."
"Your necktie sucks." Ghilo got off the monitor and grabbed his shotgun leaning beside the desk. He held it carefully as if it were his own child. It looked brand new except for a few scratches on the handle and barrel. He grabbed the table napkin by his teacup and, though a little irritated, wiped the gun clean. "Bet not even a desperate Hopsch would wanna wear your ugly necktie."
Robert leaned back on his chair. Something he read gave him pause. He peeked from the monitor's side. "Ghily boy, could you go to the archives and search for anything regarding that Watanabe report? Something ain't right. No, maybe it's more of a weird thing. Shit. I don't know. It's been bothering me like my back has since my thirties. Just check it will you?"
"I'm on my break, you old demoted shoe." Ghilo peered through the gun barrel and made sure it was clean.
"Walking garbage disposal."
"Has anyone told you your chin looks like a bu- What are you doing?!" Ghilo almost dropped his precious weapon.
Robert had a fork of lemon pie right before his mouth and the rest of the pie before him. The awkward standoff didn't even last when he ate the pie. "Need sugar to work here. You better get that report, Ghily Boy. This is damn fine pie."
"Oh for Caeth's sake! Fine!" Ghilo stomped out of the room but hung back with the door slightly ajar. He glared at Robert, who even made himself tea. He warned him, "You better not finish that pie, you damn fossil."