The Mirrorverse

Syrhahn

Syrhahn’s head felt like a nano bomb had gone off in it, taking his saliva with it. He was sat on the edge of the bed in the hotel, his recollections of the previous night returning in waves. He couldn’t believe that he had drawn so much attention to himself, nor why he had continued to drink so much whiskey back at the hotel. Desperation is a dangerous thing, he told himself as he forced himself down to breakfast, swaying slightly as he unlocked the door.

He didn’t recognise half the food that was on offer, a testament to his prior seclusion on Cxielo. His stomach disagreed vehemently with the smell of coffee, so he went for a mysterious orange coloured fruit juice, with no idea what it might actually contain.

At least buttered toast never changed, he thought to himself as he tucked hungrily into his breakfast. He noticed a man by the door shooting him wary looks, and was immediately on guard. He knew where both his guns were, and how quickly he could reach them. He watched the man and the other customers in his peripheral vision while he stared straight ahead.

The man made no move to attack, so Syrhahn finished his toast and juice slowly, trying to clear his head enough to plan the next move. He had been worrying that there were no more moves to make, no plan, just an infinite sheet of irradiated thernium between him and Viskra. Now it seemed that simply escaping the breakfast room was likely to become a military operation.

Syrhahn looked at the floor so he could check behind him for assailants, but all were other guests eating their breakfast, their lives in order. Death was not coming for them.

Slowly but purposefully, he arose from the table, watching the man in the entranceway. He had already established that it was the only exit, and through that door he would walk with dignity.

His hand was on the gun as he approached the proprietor of the hotel, who shifted uneasily at his presence.

“Sir, could I please have a word,” the brown skinned man asked in an Indian accent, his voice riddled with nerves. Syrhahn was led into the foyer, looking more and more terrified with every step. He was far too hung over to care what his story was, as long as it didn’t infringe on his day.

“Sir, I am afraid I have to ask you to leave the hotel,” the man half stammered, wild eyes pinned open.

“Any particular reason?” Syrhahn grunted a little more aggressively than intended. The smaller man took a step back bringing his hands up as a feeble shield between them. Syrhahn realised it was him the man was terrified of.

“I’m afraid you upset a very powerful man, and it would not do for me to have you here,” he replied.

“You mean the lizard?” asked Syrhahn, finally comprehending.

“Don’t call him that,” the man leaned into him conspiratorially. “He doesn’t like that!”

“Is there anything he does like?” Syrhahn enquired politely, his words dripping with insincerity.

“Money,” whispered the hotel’s owner like a child sharing a dark secret. “You should leave here, it’s not safe for you.”

“Indeed, thank you for your hospitality, I will depart shortly,” Syrhahn’s over-formality seemed to soothe the poor man, who he was almost beginning to feel sorry for.

Granted a reprieve, Syrhahn made his way upstairs to collect his things.

Not long after, he was walking down the street, any street, it didn’t matter. He had nowhere to go, his life meant nothing now that he had failed to keep the one promise he had made to Angel. Keep Viskra safe and away from the Mafia. For twenty three years Syrhahn had made good on his promise, before Viskra went and got his brilliant mind involved in developing weapons like the anti-matter gun. He couldn’t keep Viskra safe, and right then, he couldn’t keep himself safe either.

He was wallowing so deeply in his addled brain that he didn’t see them circling him. The first he knew of it was someone shouting for him to raise his hands above his head. Any movement and they would shoot. It was the military police. Since when did they get involved in matters of gang warfare? And as far as they know, my killing slime-face’s bodyguards was gang warfare. Plus technically, it was self-defence. Something tells me those thugs are not going to listen.

As he thought that, he was being thrown to the floor and disarmed at the same time. He received an elbow strike to the head, followed by further blows to his body. Syrhahn curled into foetal position to protect his torso, feeling old and broken.

Syrhahn lost track of which way was up as he was handcuffed and thrown in the back of a van.

It seemed they deliberately swung the van around corners to make him slide around in the back. He stayed silent, not giving them the satisfaction of hearing him in pain.

An indeterminable length of time later, he was manhandled from the van, receiving a blow from the butt of a gun in the process of entering the police station. It was clear to Syrhahn that the military police hadn’t changed much since his youth. That was the only thing that was clear as his head span.

He was thrown into a cell, hands handcuffed behind his back so he was unable to break his fall. They slammed the door as they left, laughing and cajoling as they made their way down the corridor. Syrhahn rolled over onto his side, feeling hot blood running down his face fresh from the rough landing.

As he lay there contemplating his lack of regret, he guessed that he would have done the same again, given the chance. He was a desperate man. Desperate men are dangerous.