The last song of the ancestors

An old man and a teenager were entrenched in a drained manhole, a place in the sewage system where rainwater was flowing. Despite the old man's recommendations, the young man decided to keep the rifle. Neither of them knew how to handle guns. The old man was a pensioner who still worked in a greengrocer's shop, and the boy had dropped out of school.

The older man was frightened by the events. The slum was like a candle. Its top was burning in fiery flames. Sounds of gunfire and explosions echoed. His comrade-in-arms saw everything differently. He was excited. He held the gun with great care. He wanted to show courage, to be accepted by Central Command.

He looked through the rifle's scope. He rehearsed a few shots and whistled softly for each shot fired. The old man disapproved. He shook his head and hid with every explosion he heard. Two different generations savored the spirit of their times in different ways. One was nostalgic for the times without criminal factions, the other for the ecstasy of the present.

"Kid, hide that head of yours. Otherwise you're going to get shot right in the middle of that ship's forehead."

"No problem, old man! We from the Central Command are going to fuck these guys up. These dirty militiamen are going to die at the point of a bullet, like this, oh, ratatatatatata."

"What you need is a few grammar lessons. Why did you leave school?"

"School? It's useless these days. I see people dying to study and going nowhere. In the slum, you have to make your own way, get rich or die trying."

"If I were your father, I'd give you a good slap. Don't you have dreams? Don't you want to be nothing when you grow up?"

"Not at all, old man! I'm going to take the hill one day. All this will still be mine. Look at Kinyua, he had nothing…"

"Yeah, now he's got a target on his back. Get down!"

A group of militiamen came around the corner. There was half a dozen of them. The old man crouched down, he didn't want to face bandits because of other bandits. His comrade didn't think twice. He took aim, fired, missed, gave away his position, and fractured his shoulder due to the recoil of the rifle.

With his shoulder dislocated, he bent over in pain. The old man tried to help the teenager. He tried to drag him back into the wolf's mouth. A shot went through his temple and out the back of his head. The old man's body fell on top of the boy. He tried to get out from under the corpse, but he didn't have the strength.

The militiamen came to the pair's hiding place. The boy cried loudly. He begged for his life and called out for his mother. The criminals just smiled. They pointed their guns at him. Just as his fingers were about to scratch the triggers, a bamboo tube fell on the foot of one of them. It began to spin and emit a thick, gray smoke.

Something fell from the sky onto the militiamen, heavy and agile. There was a struggle, followed by shots. When the smoke cleared, Spin Bomb and Akachi appeared. The medium entered the wolf's mouth and helped the young man out. The swordswoman collected the militiamen's weapons.

The pair had followed Yasini's order: to collect the weapons of downed enemies. The Central Command's polymer guns had started to overheat and were bending the barrel. One man had been wounded in the face; the shot had backfired.

"All clear here."

"Come on, we need to go. I'll take you to the second line of defense. Get that shoulder bandaged, and carry a pistol in your waistband for protection. No matter what happens, don't look back and don't stop."

"Wow, Akachi, you look just like Chuck Norris."

"Chuck who?"

"Oh, forget it, let's go!"

The trio headed towards the second line of defense. The wall of flames didn't stop the enemy advance for long. The ambushes had had no effect. The helicopters were forcing the Central Command forces back. The anti-aircraft guns had been placed in the fourth line.

Over the course of the morning, Spin Bomb had noticed a difference in Akachi. He no longer seemed reticent. His eyes conveyed motivation to the others. He avoided killing his enemies, just leaving them unconscious. Despite this, he was committed to saving people. He had inflicted many casualties on the Fourth Estate.

They reached the second line of defense. The order was to hold out until the bipedal tanks arrived. Fake news was circulating here and there. Yasini sought to maintain order at all costs, in a firm manner. More out of fear than respect, no one had dared to desert.

A frightened-looking man came up to Spin Bomb and Akachi, he had a communiqué from Yasini. Holoprojected the call-in low resolution.

"Akachi and Spin Bomb, retreat immediately to the third line of defense. They've hacked into the Fourth Estate's communication frequency. Ata has set a prize for whoever captures Spin Bomb and you, Akachi. I'll be waiting for you."

"Why me? Fuck him!"

"You blew up his little brother, Spin Bomb. Akachi helped. He wants to make a rug out of your hide. Get out of there, now. I won't be able to protect you both if you're on the other end of the line. The ambushes didn't work."

"Right, Master Yasini. We're on our way. Listen, fall back, that's an order."

Everyone obeyed Akachi. They fled in disarray. Unlike the militiamen, who were ex-military, there was no order, hierarchy or honor among them. They were just a bunch of civilians bearing arms, and they believed that this was the pinnacle of power on earth. It wasn't. He who wounds with a bullet will be wounded with a bullet.

Even without knowing it, they respected him. Some even considered killing Kinyua and Yasini and making Akachi a new leader. They would manipulate him and then kill him and take his place, just as the scorpion had killed the frog after crossing the lake. Such was the nature of venomous beings.

Despite the turbulence of the conflict, only one thing united the forces of Central Command: the fear of dying. No one wanted to board Charon's prow and go down the river of the dead. Death, like old age and illness, were the most democratic things those mere mortals possessed. Everything else was inexact, unpredictable until the twinkling of an eye.