Jack stood before a podium, a crowd of people watching him. He smiled and waved. A team of armed guards stood on either side of him.
"Today marks a glorious day in history!" he declared. "Behold, the Lupine Augmentation!"
A cage was revealed, and within it was a ghastly sight. Inside the cage was a black wolf. Both of its eyes glowed red, but only one of them was robotic. It was much larger than normal wolves, and various ribs, a leg, its tail, its spine, and part of its face surrounding the robotic eye had been replaced by metal and bionics. To make matters worse, it wasn't a perfect fit. One could obviously see places where the plates didn't quite cover the flesh that had been removed, as well as lumps where parts of the devices didn't quite fit under its skin. It snarled. Half of its lips were missing, while the other half pulled back to reveal metal fangs.
And yet, despite the abhorred scene, the crowd cheered, applauded, stood for rows upon rows as far as the eye could see for this monstrous design. Jack felt unnerved by his creation, but gave a bow to please the crowds, keeping an eye on the wolf as though it were a car crash. Something so horrible, you had to look at it.
And then the bars creaked and groaned as they bent to the sides, allowing the wolf to lay its metallic paw on the ground outside its cage. It stepped out into freedom and raised its head to howl. While it persisted, the crowd turned grey and started to idly disperse and fade into nothingness. The guards protecting Jack dropped their weapons and ran for their lives. And then the wolf leaped upon its creator.
Jack's eyes fluttered open and he sat up. "Strange dream," he muttered.
He was sitting on the couch, and Katherine raised her head next to him. "Good morning, Jack..." she mumbled, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. "When's the meeting today?"
"Noon, as usual," Jack said, but his mind was elsewhere. That dream still had a hold of his mind.
***
The office was tight. It's inhabitant had no use for large spaces. He worked only with what he needed. On his desk sat a pistol and a keyboard.
It was two days since the incident at Mar's Bar, and Lt. James Carter sat at his desk furiously trying to make sense of the cryptic clues as to the identity of the Razors. Surely, there must be some story that held true. Each gang had its own opinion of what the Razors were and what they stood for. Outside of the gangs, every citizen who had heard seemed to tell their own particular stories. The Strobes said that the Razors were a kind of hippie movement, albeit a very violent one, seeking to end the suffering by destroying the perpetrators. The Fools said that they might never know the Razors true intent, for it is hidden with flashy tricks like a magician. The Gothic Artists said that they brought death upon those who brought death, for that was the true circle of life. Each gang seemed to have taken the same course in their ideas: They all had built up the Razors as the head of some low-life's cult, changing the story to fit their own ideals.
An MPF soldier pushed a handcuffed girl into Carter's office. Carter glanced up from his screen just long enough to realize who she was. The Black Perfectionist girl who had stood up to him before the barfight. The one the hooded Razor had saved. He couldn't tell if she was only in her underwear, or if the black bra and panties were merely a Black Perfectionist fashion statement.
Carter looked back down at the screen. "Does this one have an ID?"
"Corina Mellisian," the soldier said, pushing her into a chair. "Her record's clean, although she's an orphan."
"Thank you, primate," she growled. "Now unhand me before I charge you with sexual assault and laugh at the irony of a Martial Peacekeeping Force soldier being executed by his own ideals."
The soldier quickly pulled his hands back, and Carter nodded, waving him away. The soldier saluted before exiting the room.
"May I inquire as to why I have been manhandled out of my clan's abode to this box of hypocrisy?" the girl demanded.
"You're well-spoken for an orphan raised on the streets," Carter noted, not raising his eyes.
"Class means nothing. I was raised by the Black Perfectionists. They found me entertaining thoughts of suicide and taught me to seek refuge in my own likeness."
"You mean, emotionally unstable street rats?"
The girl narrowed her eyes, but bit her tongue. Carter glanced up. He sighed and waved his screen aside before folding his hands and giving her his attention. "I've been trying to get some insight on who the Razors are."
It didn't seem to hit her at first, and then a smile slipped across her lips. "Ah, I see. So, they finally have the MPF fearing for their stability? Tell me, lieutenant, do you suppose a nearly unnoticed cell such as the Razors could turn the tide of public opinion until the Leader himself is forced to shut down your organization? If the MPF were demolished, what would happen to you? I imagine you would be crushed under the weight of a failed ideology, gasping for breath and reaching for any hand gracious enough to pull you out. But none will come, Mr. Carter. For they all know of the horrors you committed. One day, the words 'I was only doing my job' will leave your lips, and they will turn away in disgust. I wonder if those words will be true. I suspect from the way you tried to have me killed that you actually enjoy brutally murdering the innocents who happen to eat too much, enjoy themselves, or take up too much space and oxygen."
Carter cracked his knuckles and his neck. "Is that what the Black Perfectionists think of the Razors? That they're on some mission to topple the MPF?"
The girl laughed. "Oh, no, sir. The Black Perfectionists would never go so far as to declare what they believe the Razor's canon is. We don't fall as low as some other gangs in this city, scrambling for whatever hope we can get. Our enlightenment comes from bleak, honest shadows. We only acknowledge facts, and the facts are that all Razors endeavors have seemed to adversely affect the United States government."
Carter nodded. "So they're a terrorist cell. Should've guessed."
Carter pulled his screen back up and stared at an image of a wall grafitied with the words "Where are the Razors?"
"Thank you for your contribution," he said without raising his eyes. He did, however, raise his gun and fire it through her head. "Now, let's start tracking acts against the government."
