That was the word two members of the Stahlkorp used to describe the red-haired youth. When he read their report, Makoto couldn’t help but crease his brows in a frown.
Was his uncle mistaken? He did say that it was just a feeling, and that the thug might have been wary because of his troubled past. As much as he didn’t want to doubt his uncle’s judgement, Makoto had a feeling that it might not be that simple.
Mundane people had no knowledge of the Tongue of truth, and even if they were able to resist it unconsciously, doing so would require a lot of mental fortitude. Anyone capable of such a feat couldn’t be a normal person, and that included the haired youth whom Makoto had dismissed as a thug.
Having misjudged him once, Makoto was reluctant to make the same mistake a second time. He didn’t outright dismiss the report sent back by his team members, but he wanted to wait a little more and see. One day was hardly enough time to expose someone’s true face, after all.
As if reality weren’t clear enough, the news of the tax reforms had dispelled any uncertainties. Massive cuts for the rich, less funding for social welfare and public assistance programs, and a general ban on unions and worker rights movements. In a time when the divide between the rich and the poor couldn’t be more apparent, the government had made its stance clear, and it wasn’t siding with its people.
Frank Porter was one of the many who found themselves with no job or income. What little scraps he could gather barely kept him and his mother alive, and he relied on government assistance when it came to the medicine she needed. That was gone now, and he was left contemplating what needed to be done.
Though he attended the protest held right after the announcement, he had long since lost faith in the peaceful way of doing things. They say no one ever got their rights by appealing to the moral sense of their oppressors. Protests meant nothing if those they’re protesting never bother to listen, and strikes never mattered because there will always be fresh blood to replace those unwilling to work.
The rope keeps tightening every day, little by little. Soon enough, it will strangle them all, and as that time approaches, the flames of anger fed on anger and despair.
"I can’t take it anymore." Jimmy, a colleague with whom Frank had worked for the past two years, held his shaved head in his hands and mumbled in a quiet voice. "How could they do this to us?"
"They never cared, remember?" Bart scoffed. "To them, we’re no different from the rats in the sewers."
The three sat around a table at their favorite bar. There was no music, and no alcohol was served. Or it might be more accurate to say no one could afford to drink. The shop was one of the cheapest places in town and its loyal customers, but things have gone so bad lately that they only gathered there to talk and nothing more.
"I think... I think I’ll pick the axe."
When they heard what their friend said, both Frank and Bart turned to him with shock in their eyes.
"Hey... you’re kidding... right?"
As Frank asked that question, Bart looked around the room, checking if anyone had heard them.
"It’s the only way," Jimmy said, keeping his voice low. "We can’t keep going ."
"Do you want to get yourself killed?" Frank asked.
"Can you really say that we’re alive right now? Just look at us! How long do you think we’ll last at this rate!!?"
For a moment there, the two saw the logic in their friend’s argument and found themselves unable to retort. And how could they? They had no savings, were constantly under the threat of starvation, and couldn’t afford even the most basic forms of health care. Even Crow products were out of their pay range, so if one of them were to get sick, they would have no choice but to lie down and wait for death to arrive.
"Still..." Bart leaned on the table, looking at his bald friend as he whispered. "Are you sure about this? You know how they deal with treason in this country, right?"
Staring at him for a moment, Jimmy then narrowed his eyes. "Fuck this county. Why should I give a fuck about what they think when I’m going to die anyway?"
Once again, the other two found themselves with no counterarguments. Why should they care about a country that sold its people to satisfy the undying greed of the ultra-wealthy?
"Still, picking the axe..." Bart muttered, glancing at Frank to seek his agreement, only to find his friend spacing out. When their eyes met and the latter averted his gaze, it became instantly clear that he was hiding something.
"Don’t tell me you’re thinking about it, too."
Raising an eyebrow, Frank gave him a bewildered look then shook his head. After a moment of silence, he leaned toward the table, resting his elbows on it and gazing at the other two.
"I... I have made some acquaintances as of late, and... well, they made me an offer..."
"Seriously?" The other two grasped, as if they were unable to believe what they heard. Lingering for a moment, Frank looked at his hands then reached into the inner pocket of his jacket and took something out. It appeared like a flat pencil case, one made from tin. Though the strangest thing about it was that it had no mark or brand logo, it was clear that the gray case itself wasn’t what mattered, but the contents stored inside it.
Tapping the surface of the case, Frank leaned toward the other two and began to whisper.
"From what I heard, the protest tomorrow won’t end peacefully." He said. "That’s why they gave me this and told me to wait for orders."
Confirming that no one was watching them, Frank popped the case open and turned it to his friends. Inside were three capsules, all of them with the same azure blue color. Watching as their eyes widened in realization, he let the corners of his mouth rise ever so slightly.
"So, how about it?" He asked. "Do you want in?"