-------------- Third-Person Point of View ------------
The air smelled of rust and salt, a rancid perfume that stuck to the throat. From the rooftop, the sea line was a gray scar between the rubble and the mist. The sun, trapped behind a thick veil of clouds, stained the coast a sickly copper. About five hundred meters from the police station, a crowd moved with its own rhythm, an irregular mass swaying like a living creature.
Astrad watched in silence. His eyes, accustomed to looking for danger rather than hope, scanned the semicircle of green figures stirring in the open field. At first glance, it looked like chaos, but if one watched long enough, you noticed the pattern. There were rhythms. Beats. Voices.
The wind carried the echoes like fragments of a nightmare: improvised drums, guttural chants, and the hollow sound of bones clacking like instruments. The earth trembled slightly, a dull vibration that rose up through the soles of their boots.
It wasn't simple commotion.
Someone with knowledge of ancient civilizations would have called it a ritual. For Astrad, it was just an eye-twitch.
[Ugh, how disgusting] —Astrad growled, his face twisted—. [Did you call me up here to watch some green monkeys dance cumbia?]
[Hey, we don't like it either, but I assure you, it's bad news] —replied a young police officer beside him with an ironic smile.
Next to him, Wiston didn't move. The old soldier kept his arms crossed, his countenance hardened by surfacing memories.
[This again…] —he muttered, without looking away.
[Again?] —Carlos asked.
Wiston nodded.
[Yes. The last time was just before they began the major invasion that forced us to retreat here] —his voice had the roughness of someone reliving a defeat—. [It's some kind of preparation ritual. They're choosing the attack leaders.]
Jhon, sitting on a sandbag with his rifle resting on his knees, completed the thought.
[Something like a tournament to choose generals. The winners lead the troops.]
Astrad let out a short laugh.
[How do they choose? By dancing cumbia? Should have said so sooner. Go over there and bring the gold to the rat kid. Then use your authority as general to let us escape.]
[[[Hehehehe.]]]
Astrad's antics made the men burst into laughter, as if the situation had nothing to do with them.
[Why didn't I think of that before? My years on the dance floor can't be in vain. Today I'll show them how I won over my wife] —Wiston played along, making a few strange moves.
[I think it's time to bring out the forbidden steps.]
[My youth practicing Michael Jackson will finally pay off.]
[You have all my moral support.]
[Record it, it's definitely going on YouTube.]
[What do you say, kid? Will you compete?]
[Kekeke. Only if the prize is your granddaughter.]
[You tempt me, you tempt me.]
Soon, a conversation out of sync with the situation was underway, filled with laughter and mockery. But no one took their eyes off the horizon.
On that rooftop, there were no heroes or elite soldiers, just survivors with worn-out rifles and fresh fear in their bones. The wind carried a smell of burnt oil, rusted metal, and the promise of violence. Below, the goblins roared to the beat of their own delirium.
But even in the grotesque scene that foretold a sinister end, their spirits didn't break. In their eyes, there was no hope, only the cold certainty that if they were going to fall, at least they would do it while making a good racket.
Fear? Of course. But what good was it? Crying or being nervous never solved anything. The tension of the last few days hadn't helped them at all. So, why not laugh along with their fucked-up little jester?
["Hehehe"] —Wiston was the one laughing with the most spirit. Without thinking, he patted the head of Astrad beside him.
(These old bones can't keep up with the speed of the young anymore) —he thought, observing Astrad with a paternal smile.
The boy's eyes had a predatory glint that reminded him of himself when he was younger.
He knew that not only had he not given up, but that right at this moment, even amidst jokes and sarcasm, he was already setting up his own board.
And he loved that.
Still, he felt a pang of pity.
He had already planned to drag him to his headquarters as soon as he graduated; he even had his granddaughter enroll in the same school to forge a bond.
Although he never told her directly, Wiston knew that Carla wasn't stupid. Even without words, she understood what her grandfather wanted and, as he expected, the reports poured in.
And each case only convinced Wiston more.
(My beautiful retirement…) —he thought with regret.
[What are they doing now?] —Astrad asked, bringing Wiston back to reality.
At the same time, the drums grew more intense. From a distance, a larger figure could be distinguished: an orc. Its dull gray skin gleamed with a reddish paint. It raised a spear wrapped in rags and, with each gesture, the goblins knelt in waves.
Finally, it lit the spear on fire and embedded it in a pile of wood, creating a huge bonfire.
[That's our countdown] —Wiston said in a solemn tone.
Astrad raised an eyebrow but said nothing; he waited for him to finish.
[When that burns out, the tournament will begin. Then, the winners will be marked using the tip of the spear and the blood of the sacrifices] —Wiston clarified, as his mind replayed the night his defense line was breached.
[Sacrifice? Of whom?] —Carlos asked with a bad feeling.
The men gritted their teeth.
They all already knew that the goblins had just been playing with them for a long time, and that this ritual simply marked the end of the game.
It was a blatant mockery, a proclamation of the end to an enemy they considered inferior.
They danced in front of them, chose their ranks in front of them, sacrificed their people in front of them.
[Any living being they have on hand… Monsters, animals, humans, themselves… The only condition seems to be that the higher the rank, the stronger the sacrifice must be. Twelve sacrifices in total. One of our colleagues was the sixth one last time…] —Jhon finally said, gritting his teeth.
No one spoke for a moment. The breeze brought a metallic smell.
[What about the chief's position? Isn't that up for grabs?] —Astrad broke the silence.
Some were surprised by his coldness, but at the same time, they agreed with him. There was a time for everything, and these veterans knew it better than anyone. (The dead don't mourn graves).
[We don't know. At least, it didn't happen last time] —Wiston replied.
Astrad slowly processed the new information and merged it with his own.
He looked carefully at every detail.
Originally there were more than twelve orcs, which is why last time all the main positions belonged to them.
But after the devastating attack by a golem, only five of them remained, including the orc chief.
Astrad remembered the conversations with the Network: all the goblins and orcs seemed to have specific scars as marks, but some had an "X" over the scar. In addition, they had another "mark," though only painted on.
Because of this, they speculated about possible factions that had lost their leaders in power plays, and they weren't far from the truth.
[Do you remember what we talked about?] —Astrad asked.
[The thing about provoking a rebellion. Do you have something in mind already?] —Wiston nodded and asked back.
Although the idea proposed was possible, they hadn't had time to formulate it carefully.
While Wiston reviewed the scarce possibilities, Astrad's smile had already widened. Where the others saw an army, he saw a map of fractures. He noticed a group of goblins on the left flank that wasn't cheering, just observing. He saw how a minor orc looked at the warlord with something more than fear: it was resentment. Every symbol, every off-beat applause, every averted gaze in the crowd, was a coordinate in his plan.
The crowd, apparently united, was fragmented by factions waiting for their moment. And what was better, the ritual itself announced it with marks that, to Astrad, shone with a provocative intensity. The lack of orcs meant that many goblins would have the opportunity to consolidate real power. They just needed a push.
[Hubris kills, you son of a bitch] —Astrad's smile turned aggressive; in his mind, he was already playing with his life as the wager.
Below, the warlord drank from an improvised barrel and roared with laughter, surrounded by goblins celebrating him. When he looked up, his eyes met Astrad's. A charged silence vibrated between them.
Two predators acknowledging each other.
Finally, the orc flashed a provocative smile.
[Kekeke, if you want a fight, you've got one.]
------------ Astrad's Point of View -------------------
[Is the armory open already? Why didn't you tell the rat kid?] —I ask with dubious doubt, in front of the two suitcases full of democracy.
And when I say democracy, I mean grenades of all kinds, some heavy-caliber weapons, ammunition, and even bars of C4.
[Ahahaha… Well, actually, this is the chief's personal armament. Almost everything we're using is also his. The only thing available here were low-caliber pistols, some old shotguns and rifles, plus smoke grenades for riots and anti-riot protective gear. Although in general and defensive gear we're very modern, overall, our offensive capability is very low without authorization. The station's ammunition for the rifles and shotguns also ran out a few days ago, only pistol ammunition is left.]
The gorilla tamer clarifies with an ironic smile, as he looks at the rest of the equipment the chimps brought when I asked for a count of ammo and gear, taking advantage of the free time while the stupid goblins were dancing cumbia in the distance.
He also pointed out the seal so I could understand what belonged to the grandpa and what belonged to the police force.
The comparison was similar to that of an adult and a child. The official police equipment was just that pathetic.
Even the "shotguns and rifles" were closer to being museum relics than functional weapons.
[[…]]
The orangutan grandpa and I exchange silent glances.
[What? Is it bad to be cautious?] —he finally said, looking away, embarrassed.
[Grandpa...] —The rat kid got sentimental, so I say it with a charge of emotion.
[Grandson...] —the orangutan grandpa responds to my emotion and looks at me with shining eyes.
Then, without saying anything else, we hug.
Is it you? The long-lost grandpa I never wanted?
[What the hell are you two doing...]
I hear complaints in the distance, but the rat kid is having an emotional moment here.
Because he found his grandfather, lost seventeen years ago.
What is this feeling the rat kid feels in his chest?
Hunger?
[I want two semi-automatics.]
I ask the orangutan grandpa for two pistols.
[Sure, here you go.]
Without thinking, the grandpa rummaged through the bags and handed me two Desert Eagle Magnums and two automatic 9mms, along with several magazines and boxes of ammunition.
I came looking for copper and found gold. Attaboy, orangutan grandpa, attaboy, the rat kid's grandpa.
[I thought you'd be more of a heavy weapons guy, though.]
[The rat kid has zero physical conditioning. The rat kid can't handle them.]
[Do you know how much your hood and gear weighed?]
[The rat kid looks cool with his two pistols.]
[So that's your real goal.]
I'm the rat kid.