CHAPTER ONE
Despite what anyone might say, I was not one of the monsters. If I had it my way, I’d have nothing to do with them.
And yet, only one person could convince a misclassified human like me to go wander in a crowd of identified non-humans during one of their most popular holidays of the year. If it'd been anyone else who'd suggested the idea, I would've told them, hell no. But Chevy always had a way of convincing me to do whatever he wanted. Whether it was opting for the LA Quarter when I came of age and was deported from human society, or attending the same university where he studied law--it didn't matter. Chevy might've been more of my brother's friend than my own, but all it took was a smile, a promise of a great time, and I'd find myself in a sketchy area, like the corner of 1st and Freedom Ave in the heart of South Central, waiting for him while the monsters came out to play.
Normally, Freedom Ave was a mishmash of crumbling brick buildings leftover from the Fallout. Patches of glass and metalwork pasted into the gaps held it all together. Tonight, however, the entire avenue had been utterly transformed. Strings of lights hung from pole to pole. Ribbons danced in the breeze between the vendor booths and small tents that lined the streets. Magicked wares sprawled across tables, ready for purchase. The heavy scent of spice and roasting meats saturated the air and worked their magic on the growing crowd. In the span of fifteen minutes since I hit the corner cafe, more and more identifieds of all colors and sizes trickled into the lively area, drawn by the festivities. Soon, lawn chairs and asses filled the few gaps left between stalls and parking spots. A low hum of excitement grew as the anticipation of the Crispin's Day Parade intensified.
I glanced at my phone--4:16pm--and slid my hand down my new outfit for the umpteenth time. It was much too early.
My hands shook as I took another jolt from my oversized Americano, but not from the caffeine. Nor was it the fact that identifieds were everywhere, any of whom could eat a human like me without the slightest provocation. No, my heart raced in my throat for another reason altogether. I swallowed my mouthful of coffee hard, hoping to still the unnerving sensation. No dice.
Between finding out this morning that I had aced a linguistics paper that I nearly killed myself on two weeks before, it being my 21st birthday with the chances of cake looming high in my future, and knowing that even though my brother's super-platonic friend could have spent the holiday with anyone else, he wanted to spend it with me--nothing could get me down from this high. I was soaring.
Not even the incessant pounding from the blue twerp at the altered Whack-a-Mole in the impromptu holiday-themed arcade could dampen my giddiness. A new graphic had been pasted over the ancient arcade game’s back display. It showcased Crispin in a ripped shirt, muscles gleaming, with a shining hammer of justice glowing overhead.
A yellow tongue peeked out of the corner of the twerp's beak as he focused all of his attention into beating his padded mallet against the rising mounds of plastic. It wasn't until my coffee was nearly drained and the next identified child came to try her luck that I spotted the words carved into the former mole heads. Oppression. Bigotry. Hate. Injustice. Violence.
The elderly gremlin at the table next to mine snorted and smacked his folded paper down in front of his friend. "Can you believe this trash? Fifth year in a row, mate."
The hob beside him squinted through thick frames to inspect the article. The headline read: Supreme Court Rejects Reinstating Crispin's Voting Act. After a moment, the old coot snorted back phlegm and spat a thick mass onto the sidewalk between us. He cleared his throat. "That's what I think about that." He glanced up at me after I inched away from the unexpected brown wad. "Sorry, miss."
