City of Wolves: Alphas on Motorcycles

6 | Lies

Celeste

When Matthew is done showering he joins me on the balcony, rubbing my arms with his warm hands, telling me it's cold and I should come inside to bed. I do not acknowledge him even though I do have a chill, skin rippling into gooseflesh. The flames from the explosion are beginning to be quelled by the firefighters and those assisting with the effort—the smoke now makes the disaster look worse than it currently is. The damage has been done, however; the entire street, and part of the neighboring block, has been completely burned. The protest has ended. Tomorrow will bring more consequences to the participants.

"The Lycans didn't even grab their motorcycles," I say. "They just ran, left them behind. Lycans are nothing without their motorcycles."

"That's a bit of a stretch. They were responding to a real emergency."

"The same one they were running away from in order to mow down the protestors."

"They just needed to be reminded of where their priorities should be, and it wasn't with revving their bicycles."

"Matthew, I am not stupid," I shrug his hands off of me and, again, shoulder past him to step inside the living room. He follows me inside, closing and locking the balcony door. The sirens carry through the window, stabbing straight into my ears. "Please don't speak to me like you think I am."

"I think you're frazzled by what's taken, and taking, place tonight. That's normal. Your reaction is normal but your suspicions misplaced," he takes my hand in his, lightly tugging me toward the bedroom. I groan but ultimately acquiesce. "Let's just lay down, hold each other, and go to sleep. Tomorrow is a new day."

"Tomorrow I was supposed to work. I don't know how that's supposed to happen when the shop has been turned to ash. I don't know what tomorrow is going to look like and I'm scared. My brain is wired for sound. I don't even feel tired. I'm afraid to breathe too loud."

My alarm has been uselessly set on my cellphone which I left on the nightstand. Lycans love cellphones but hated the manmade phenomenon known as social media, which they teach as a horrible creation that allowed for polarizing platforms and ideologies to spread. What they fail to teach, and what I learned through my own research, was that it was also a way for humans to freely connect and lament with each other around the world in times of peace and times of crisis. I understand and accept both sides of the social media argument, but wish that Lycan-funded curriculum allowed for nuance. Things are taught as either good or bad—never neutral or ambiguous. All cellphones do nowadays are allow you to connect with the people immediately around you and ensure that you aren't late for a day of work. They don't even have games: brain rot, the Lycans logicized.

"I doubt you will be going to work tomorrow. That isn't so bad. I have the day off myself," Matthew sets me down on my side of the bed then crawls onto his side, throwing the blankets over us. I am sitting up as he lies down, prompting him to lazily throw his arm across my stomach. "Celeste, you are going to be okay. You are one of the lucky ones. People died tonight, people will die tomorrow, and people will keep on dying. You will not die. Not because of what you've done tonight."

"Changes are coming. Society will change even more. We can't stop it from changing."

"Perhaps you're right about that, but we can alter the way it's going to change. We can exact some form of positive change so long as we try."

"But you won't even try to be honest with me about—"

"I have been honest with you, Celeste. Just because you don't believe me doesn't mean I'm lying," he snaps defensively. I've pushed his limits and I've reached mine. There is nothing else to say on this subject. He has stonewalled me. "I love you, and I'm sorry the truth isn't good enough for you. We can talk more in the morning. Try to sleep. You might feel better after you're rested."

Swallowing my pride, I tell him I love him too and allow him to lower me, with his arm, onto the mattress so that I am also lying down. I lay on my back and Matthew lay on his stomach. I listen to the sounds of the sirens outside, to the rhythm of Matthew's breathing, to the percussion of my own heartbeat and blood flow. All I can think about is the past—the past centuries before my time, the past my parents and grandparents and great-grandparents experienced, the past few hours. I hypothesize a future—a future for myself, my children, for the world. The present is nothing more than a glint, a passing fancy. It's over before your eyes open again after a blink.

Matthew falls asleep, his breathing low and shallow—how fortunate he is not to have the same ears that I do. My head is pulsating. I have to be realistic and accept that sleep will not come to me tonight. Slowly I inch my way out from underneath Matthew's arm, carefully peeling the covers away, and sneak out of bed. I grab my cellphone and a long cardigan to wrap around myself from the back of the door before I step into the living room, faint lights still oscillating along the walls. I begin to wonder if the sirens will ever cease. Their relentless bombardment of my senses makes me feel like I am going berserk.

Sitting on the couch, I turn on the television. Sure enough every channel is a broadcast of current events, though different channels cover different current events since there are a lot of things happening simultaneously. I switch between channels every ten to fifteen minutes, absorbing the news, absorbing the relevancy, absorbing the urgency. I am trembling, a plexus of nerves, a ball of fear.

The central region has shut its eastern border after citizens of the eastern region began trying to escape across it en masse. The central Alpha has made a statement that his population cannot handle our population, and that he doesn't wish to comment on our affairs due to the reality of expansionism threats—the previous eastern Alpha floated the idea, but Alpha Ronan, his son, has promised to actualize the expansion. The central region has strengthened security, especially at the eastern border, establishing a buffer.

Lycana, the country to the south, has also reinforced its southeastern border for the same reason as the central Alpha in Lycanos. Countries have become vigorously isolationist out of fear of social and political reprisal—they engage in trade, share intelligence, and sometimes exchange citizens depending on the purposes they serve, but I wouldn't go so far as to say that countries have alliances or enemies. Alliances are seen as pointless because historically alliances changed according to the whims of the leader and their shifting goals. War is personal and is not to be meddled with when it breaks out; peace is not to be meddled with either, nor taken for granted. Typically Lycans respect territory, making Alpha Ronan the deviant—a particularly threatening one, not only to his own governed subjects. I imagine our southern neighbor is shaking in their boots right now. Lycana is smaller than Lycanos; if we expand horizontally before trying to expand vertically, there is a very real chance of annexation and complete upheaval in the western hemisphere.

Our city is not the only epicenter of protest, either: other cities in the east have erupted in protest—from aerial shots I would say that some are bigger than the one in this city today. Cities and towns are nameless in this society, the purpose almost exclusively being that it makes it more difficult to coordinate rebellion and connect those who are rebels. When people get separated from each other for whatever reason—deportation, relocation, exile—it is near impossible to be reunited. This society is built on separation and division despite quarters being more intimate than ever.

I am enthralled in the last channel, however, which depicts Alpha Ronan Torres making an address to a room of important figures earlier in the evening just as the protests were starting: "Protests have sprouted across the region in response to my inauguration tomorrow morning, and my comment on the matter is to implore any protestors who may be watching this to reflect what you are protesting against. You are protesting against an individual who is interested in making society more fair, an individual who wants to restore greatness to our region by returning to the days of supremacy and empire, an individual who promises to actualize plans rather than merely submit them. I will not be just another Alpha like my father—I will be a king. I will go down in history as a venerable leader..."

Lie. Lie. Lie. One lie after another. His eyes, sea green, are untrustworthy, though I can't help but feel compelled as I look at them through the television barrier. Alpha Ronan Torres is a handsome man; it's a good disguise for what must be a constantly flowing stream of evil underneath. In spite of my implicit disdain for the man, I find myself leaning forward on the sofa, hanging onto his every word, snapping out of it suddenly when the broadcast changes to a protest that is still taking place. I lean back, confused, somewhat nauseous.

Knock. Knock. Knock. A knock on the door.