A bird landed on the branch of a maple tree. Deo peered at it through the scope of his crossbow. He waited a beat. It raised its wings, and he squeezed the trigger. The arrow sliced through the air and pierced the bird's chest. It fell immediately. The overhanging canopy of leaves was so thick that little light made it through. Deo walked over to the bird. It had likely died of heart failure before it hit the floor. He wondered if it had felt pain before he died. He heard his father's voice in his head:
'A proper man can kill his enemies without hesitation. We live in a constant state of uncertainty. Nothing is permanent. The situation can change in the flash of an eye. Because of who you are, and because of what we do, there are going to be a lot of people that want to kill you. Do not feel fear. Do not let your emotions show on your face. And do not worry about the consequences of your actions. The day will come when you will face your enemies in Relar. When that time comes, you must be prepared to fight to the death.'
Birds sang; their songs filled the gaps between the trees. They were calm, unaware of the danger that waited below. Deo took an arrow from the quiver on his back, loaded it into his crossbow and took aim, following a flash of blue feathers. The blue jay's tiny feet tapped the ground and walked slowly along the dirt trail, flapping its wings. Deo aimed at the chest, a little bit higher to account for gravity. He waited for a brief falter in its steps and released the arrow. It tore through the air and impaled the bird's chest. Deo felt nothing as it fell. He had turned off his emotions a long time ago.
He loaded a third arrow.
He continued down the trail until he heard the rush of water. He stepped out of the cover of trees into a narrow clearing. A few metres down the river, he saw a small boy swimming. The boy had light brown skin and was wearing dark blue swim trunks. The stranger stood up in a shallow area and climbed up a rock that parted the water. The sun's rays shined on his body. Long blonde hair stretched passed his shoulder blades like an extension of the golden rays.
Deo raised his crossbow, peering at the boy through the scope. Deo said, "This is private property."
The boy turned to look at him; a pair of sea-blue eyes held Deo's gaze as he stood on the river bank.
"I know." The boy said, dipping his foot into water. "I have a house around here. Near Kieger and Sul. I'm allowed to swim in the river." The boy tilted his head and took in Deo's camouflage outfit and crossbow. "Hunting?"
"Isn't that obvious."
"You're a snappy one, aren't you?" said the boy with a small smile.
"At least I don't look like a girl."
The guy laughed, doubling over. It sounded forced, unnatural. He said, "Wow, did you come up with that yourself? How original. You should be a comedian; I have never heard that one before." A dark expression crossed his face. He swam towards Deo and climbed out of the river, water streamed down his skin, and his pale feet compressed the grass as he approached.
Without asking, he took the crossbow from Deo and peered through the scope as a crow flew across the clearing. He fired; the arrow was a black streak heading towards the bird. He had calculated the trajectory well. It hit its target. The bird squawked then fell out of the sky, falling to the earth and crushing its fragile bones on impact. If the arrow didn't kill it, the fall certainly did.
Deo was impressed but didn't let it show. "What's your name?"
"I have none. My father doesn't want me, and my mother won't speak to me."
Deo chuckled. "They must have given you a name at some point." The boy faintly intrigued Deo. He was different than the crowd Deo was used to. People that fawned over him at every step.
The boy sauntered over to the dead bird; it lay with the arrow's shaft sticking out its belly. The boy bent down and touched its head. The boy said, "Strange, isn't it? I love birds. I love animals, and because I was sad and upset, I killed you. I'm sorry; it won't happen again, I swear. I wasn't thinking. I hope you forgive me."
"A bird can't do something like that," Deo said. "It can't think, and it certainly can't forgive."
Adonis muttered, "I wasn't speaking to him, yet he speaks."
Irritation clouded Deo's mind. Before now, no one had deliberately angered him. He strode over to the boy and brought his fist down on the kid's head. The boy glared and stood, straightening his spine. He stepped closer to Deo, close enough for them to breathe on each other and see every pore on the other's face, or how strange one's nose looks when magnified. "You want to fight, bro?" the kid asked.
"I'm not your brother." Deo checked out his opponent. He was small and wimpish looking with a small waist and flat chest. The stranger also had a flat stomach and slender thighs. Overall, he had little to no muscle. Deo laughed. There was no contest between them. Deo practiced boxing, Muay Thai, fencing, karate and Kung Fu for many hours each day. He trained with heavyweights and had developed an impressive physique though he was only ten.
The boy gritted his teeth, rounded his fists, and said, "What's so funny?"
Deo said, "You. You look like an anchovy, but you want to fight me.... Really? Are you sure?" Deo placed his crossbow on the ground.
The boy hesitated, his gaze shifting left to right then back to Deo.
Deo said, "If you desire to fight, Anchovy, then we will fight."
The boy paused to weigh his options, then said, "My name is Adonis, not Anchovy. No parent would name their kid that, dumbass. I've met many unpleasant things in the last few weeks, but you are the worst. I hope you rot in hell." The boy called Adonis retreated towards the river. He paused when his feet touched the water then said, "I'm leaving, but not because I'm afraid of you. I have things to do. Places to be. I'm a busy man, you understand?"
"Of course," Deo said, but he knew the kid had lied. The kid had guessed Deo's capabilities, and chose, wisely, to run away. Deo smiled. He had found something interesting to play with. A pet.
Adonis moved into a deeper section of the water then swam in the opposite direction. A few minutes later, he was nowhere to be seen, and Deo would have thought he had imagined the whole thing if it weren't for the dead bird near his feet.
***
A sleek black hovercar drove down Wylac Avenue carrying Deo and his father to their client's house. The car's tinted windows reflected the city's lights; neon signs advertised waxing, pizza, massage parlours, lawyers, and fine dining. Dark clouds loomed over the traffic; the sky was a worrying slate grey. Deo could sense that the rain was about to pour. His father sat next to him in a trim black suit. He had a handsome face, high cheekbones, and tan skin; his black hair was neatly parted to one side. His hand tapped his knee impatiently as the car turned left under the overpass. He checked his watch then muttered, "We'll be five minutes early. Not bad. Not good."
Deo's father, Vasilis was a military veteran. His current job was selling hi-tech weapons. Two cars filled with bodyguards followed them in case their client turned violent. Their Rolls' Royce Phantom flew down Traiger. It was a lively street. Young people wearing colourful clothing lined up outside a metallic pink night club, waiting for the bouncer to let them in. Couples walked down the sidewalk arm in arm.
The car turned right at the intersection; all the happy faces faded, and the buildings started to thin as they neared the mansions of a few officials from the government. The car stopped in front of a black wall that had to be over thirty feet high. Every hundred metres, there was a guard tower with a man dressed in black pointing a sniper out a window.
Deo swallowed. It was his first time accompanying his father on a special delivery. Though they weren't doing anything wrong, he felt nervous. Vasilis' cold expression made his nerves vanish. He realized that feeling anxious was unmanly. He stripped himself of any emotion and wore a blank expression as a guard tapped on his father's window. His father pressed a button that lowered the glass and showed the guard his ID. The man thanked him and father returned the card to his wallet.
The guard spoke into his watch. "He's safe."
A section of the wall shifted, forming two gates that swum inwards to reveal a wide street. Security guards patrolled the inner streets, carrying rifles in their hands. They wore military clothes, white and grey camouflage instead of the usual green.
The cars parked on the elongated, winding driveways were like Deo's father's, expensive brands, clean and polished. Black was a favorite among politicians. It seemed to be a color that was a symbol of power. Their vehicle drove inside and parked in the driveway of house number thirty-four next to a Bugatti. The mansion had three stories and was fashioned from concrete and large glass windows. A glass pool could be seen through the second-floor balcony.
Without speaking, Deo left the car alongside his father, and they were led inside by two guards. Father's ten bodyguards trailed behind them, four of them carrying toolboxes filled with guns. In the foyer, a hefty man in a light grey suit greeted them. He was bald, except for the crown of silver hair wrapped around the sides of his head. A dimple creased his chin.
Crow's feet lined the corners of his eyes as he smiled, "It's always good to see you, Vasilis." He held out his hand, and Vasilis shook it.
"And you, Norman," Deo's father, Vasilis said pleasantly.
"And this must be Little Deo." Norman ruffled Deo's hair.
Deo glared. He didn't like being touched or called 'little'. He was much taller than the boy he had met by the river earlier in the week. He was also stronger than most guys his age.
Norman's expression faltered, then he told Vasilis, "Not very sociable, is he?"
"He's young. He'll change eventually." Vasilis checked his watch and shifted his weight to his left foot. "Let's talk in your study. There isn't time to fool around. He's here to get a taste of the business; don't let him distract you."
"It's dangerous to bring a child along to your kind of work. If a deal goes wrong—"
Vasilis wrapped his arm around Norman's shoulders and said, "Let me worry about the boy; you should examine your latest toys."
Vasilis led Norman down the hallway as if it were his house and not the latter's, Vasilis' troop of men and young child followed him. Portraits of gentlemen hung on the wall; important men in suits with windblown hair and serious expressions. They all had the same chubby cheeks and cleft chins; Deo guessed that they were related to the owner. His father had told him that Norman was a senator. But Deo couldn't help but wonder why a senator would need so many guns. What was he planning or expecting? Deo tried to read the chubby man for clues, but he seemed emptyheaded.
Norman talked about women, hunting and Relar, but mentioned nothing of any political opposition.
They walked into his study at the end of the hall. It had a mahogany desk, behind which sat a large leather reclining chair. Behind that was a large window with sheer curtains and a view of the lawn. Bookshelves lined the sides of the room. Deo saw a newspaper tucked under a folder on the desk. He felt drawn to it; it was his first clue. Norman waltzed around the office and sat in his seat. "Well," he said, waving his hands. "Show it to me."
Vasilis nodded, and one of the guards moved forward and placed the toolbox on the desk. He removed the locks, then opened it; eight rifles sat in cushioned slots. Vasilis took one out. While his father showed off the gun, Deo pushed the folder back an inch, subtly, so that no one noticed, and saw the news headline, 'David Walters en route to becoming vice president'.
***
Seven days later, Deo saw another headline in the newspaper. 'Crowd Favorite David Walters killed by unknown terrorist group'. Deo knew who had done it, but he held his tongue and focused on his painting. His hand flowed across the canvas. His mother had told him that painting was a good way to calm his anger. The image started to take the shape of the long-haired boy he had met by the river with his cheeky grin. He took out a pocketknife and slashed the canvas into shreds. He dropped the pieces into a nearby trash can and started anew. He wasn't the type to think about people. They were expendable. There was no reason to care about anyone.
All around him, there were canvases where he had painted guns, birds—living and dead with their pretty feathers stained in blood. And there was his father's face— the same grim, tight expression from different angles and in different places.
He replaced the broken canvas with a fresh one and started anew. He painted the dead vice-presidential candidate with his blank eyes staring into the heavens. He lay on white tiles soaked in blood. The red and white provided a beautiful contrast. He painted the receding black hair and the small ears on the side of the oval face. His mother called him up for dinner, and he placed the paintbrush on the easel's protruding tray. Never one to skip a meal, he dashed upstairs before his mother called a second time.
***