Ward hunched over his desk, the pen scrawling across the paper. He'd lived in this place for only a few days; he jumped from place to place, and as a result owned precious few items for himself. The rickety old bed had been here when he moved in, as well as the wooden desk that had paint flaking off the top. They provided rest and support well enough though for his purposes.
He kept writing:
"And this is why I propose we redefine 'restorationism.' I am sympathetic to those who wish to restore the Union as it once was, for one of our most important goals is and must remain the liberation and self-determination of humanity. Yet to trace our steps backwards, and then walk forward again, will only have us stumble upon the same hurdle.
"Our movement cannot ignore the needs of the carnivore and the herbivore. In fact, in our dialogues with our animal brothers and sisters, I've come to understand that our struggles are often in parallel. For is the paranoia of the carnivore's 'innate nature' any less hateful than the paranoia against us? And is the herbivore's despondency, bereft of meaningful protection, any less a betrayal than the negligence shown to us? The Republic dictates their fates with all the force they dictate ours. The only difference is whether they wear a velvet glove or an iron gauntlet while they do so."
He paused to think, reaching for the sandwich he'd slapped together. It was difficult to eat here; he had splattered vinegar and air freshener and perfume across the room in an attempt to mask his scent from investigators prowling outside. The smells overrode his senses and made the otherwise plain food taste strange on his tongue. But it was nutrition, that's all that was important.
His room was the benefaction of a sympathizer, a fox who worked in a hospital lab downtown. She had enough distance to plead ignorance. He did his best to help her with chores around the place. In return he could stay as long as he needed, though he fully intended to move along again sooner rather than later. Ward had only lasted this far by being fluid. The moment he settled too long in one place he'd have the police on top of him. And he couldn't have that. At least not yet. There was still so much he needed to do and say.
Ward picked up his pen again: "That is why I believe in our new Tristar Flag. Each star represents human, carnivore, and herbivore, indistinguishable from each other, none higher than the other. For this must be our goal. The liberation of humanity will accompany the liberation of all animalkind from the chains of ignorance.
"And please notice my turn of phrase: 'WILL accompany.' For to free ourselves, and not free all other species, will be no liberation, but only a delay to our return to chains. Our fates are tied together; our fates are already in motion. We must strive to keep up.
"We must also strive without fear of death. Whatever we accomplish will never be erased by mortal hand. Even if I shall be shot tomorrow, and every word I've written burned, these ideas will manifest again in someone else in the future. But do not mistake this as an excuse for complacency. Rather, know that our words and deeds shall be the foundation upon which our brothers and sisters not yet born will carry on our sacred mission and keep the wheel of progress turning forward.
"For I believe in a simple truth; the Republic as it stands cannot survive. I cannot say whether it will end in violent collapse or by withering in a thousand lacerations, but however it happens we must be at the ready, else we lose our window. The moment draws near when the Tristar may fly atop the All-Species Chamber. The moment creeps upon us, but we must be vigilant when it arrives. The march of progress is relentless. The hands of history are steady. And I will be happy when my eyes see that day arrive. With great care, yours,
"Sage X."
Ward set down his pen, sighing. He lifted the letter to read it more closely. It was rough, he knew that. But they needed this hope. So many of them needed hope, with things so rough since Silver Wing. It had set the Beastar on edge, and that was good. It meant they'd make more mistakes.
He desperately needed that to happen, because he'd made a mistake himself.
Ward had underestimated the pushback that his stunt at Cherryton would bring. He had just wanted to help Vigil. And now the boy was rotting in a jail cell. What he intended to be a good deed had gotten the boy mixed up in all this… even if it had been helpful to their movement.
That's what made him sick to his stomach. His eyes read over his words again, and his guts churned. After losing his job at NEIL he had kept close to his team, and their weekly outings had quickly turned political in the bitterness of their situation. He didn't remember how they got to this point; all he knew was that after all this time of living a double-life, he never thought he'd so heavily regret the position he was in. Yes, Vigil being captured had been a catalyst for outrage. It had enabled him to direct operations that were more dramatic without alienating too many people. It was probably the best thing to happen to the restorationists in a decade.
But Vigil was never meant to be part of this game.
It frightened Ward that he'd allowed this to happen. The boy had been reduced to a chess piece, and now that he was in play it seemed foolish to not leverage it for the good of the cause. Even if he dropped all else and managed to get Vigil released today, it would have the benefit of legitimizing their group. And it felt wrong to Ward, as wrong as keeping the cash from a found wallet.
How had he let it happen?
Two options presented themselves to his mind, and he couldn't tell which was more horrific. One, his age was starting to show. His mind was starting to slip, even only in his late forties, and that wasn't just a danger to his own well-being. It'd take only a single misstep to doom the others. It'd take only a single thoughtless word to rile the fringe elements in one direction or the other, and upset the delicate and fragile coalition of cells he'd fostered over years of patient negotiation. The thought that he was becoming a liability to the restorationists broke his heart.
The second option, in contrast, frightened him. Had he grown too hard and cynical? Had he gotten to the point where lives were now merely playing cards to be laid out as he wished? Ward wanted to say no, and part of him even believed that. But it wasn't the conscious train of thought he had to worry about. If he had become desensitized it would affect his calculations, the unconscious decisions he made at a moment's notice. The movement, he knew, would require sacrifice. But the moment that sacrifice lost its terribleness, well… what would he become? How much would he soil everything he built towards?
So many people were angry. So many people wanted an excuse to go out and fight the police until their fists were bloody. They'd even swing at Yafya himself if Sage X told them to. It wasn't a power he relished. It wasn't a power, now, he even thought he deserved. Sometimes it scared him, but he tried to be sympathetic. So many of them weren't really violent, just impatient and afraid. They wanted their results now. He could understand that, he had been young once. But if he wrote and told them to act, then blood would run in the streets. He had said it before, it was only the last course of action. But now, what if he made that call at the wrong time?
For a while Ward hesitated with his letter. His fingers caressed the paper. A dozen doubts circled his mind, as they always had, but now they seemed closer than ever.
With another sigh he took the letter, sealed it in a plain envelope, and folded it into a plastic bag. Striding to the door he checked the peephole. No one could be seen in the narrow streets. Nevertheless he still grabbed the coat and hat and scarf from the hooks beside him. He layered himself up all to open the door for a total of ten seconds, to leave his letter underneath the mat.
About an hour later Ward heard a knock at his door. "Delivery for Gil Hao?"
"If you leave it on the porch, money's underneath the mat," he called out.
"Thanks!" He could hear the wings flap away, before he cracked open the door again to take the delivery. A single styrofoam container nestled in the plastic bag as he grabbed it inside. Peeling off his hat and scarf, Ward sat down and cracked it open. About five thousand yen, his weekly allowance, greeted him. He also had a stack of notes from cells with their plans for the week. Lots of notes, resources to be shuffled about… but he couldn't say anything about it until tomorrow anyways. He needed to sleep.
He wasn't sure what woke him up later. Moonlight still streamed through his window. No vehicles could be heard passing by. But something had jolted him to full alertness; something had his subconscious on edge. Slowly he rose to his feet, his clothes mussed from having slept in them, straining to hear. He took a step towards his window, covered in paper. In the distance, helicopter blades beat the air, drawing nearer and nearer.
From the opposite wall, Ward could hear boots against the ground.
Quick as a flash he tore off the paper and shoved the window open. Ward forced his body through and stumbled against the rain-lashed sidewalk as he heard voices around the corner, "Shit he's running!"
Sure enough he ran down the street. He could hear the sound of animals splashing through the puddles behind him and drawing closer. The helicopter was louder now. Light flooded around him. Rushing past the mouth of an alley he grabbed a plastic trash lid and turned to chuck it. The pronghorn right behind him caught the lid square in his face. It gave Ward a chance to dash into the apartment nearby.
The mongoose at the lobby desk snorted awake as Ward turned and bolted the door shut. "Hey, hey what's your problem?!"
Ward ignored him and went for the stairs. He ran up the steps, dragging himself up along the handrail, first flight. He kept going, his shoes echoing up and down, the shaft of the stairwell seeming to spin as he climbed, second flight.
The door banged open on the ground floor. Ward fled out into the hallway. Numbers adorned the rooms on either side, except for one. He yanked on the closet door.
No luck.
"Shit!" he shouted, hurrying on. Ward turned a corner. The fire escape! He sprinted for it, pushing the door open and clambering onto the metal scaffolding. The human made to climb down - except for the helicopter that swirled into place. He heard shouting, "He's on the fire escape!"
A jaguar ran around, gun drawn. The bullet fired and pierced the air.
"FUCK!" Ward cried, the force catching him in his shoulder. Searing pain, so much pain, he struggled to stay upright, leaning against the brick. He could hear shouts below, distant chastisements from the other officers, and then clanging as they began to grab at the ladder. He moaned in agony… but he had to keep moving. Gritting his teeth he pressed onwards, upwards now, to the top of the building, as the rain drove down against him. The jaguar had started climbing after him, and soon the rest of his pursuers were on the metal below. Six, seven…
And that was it.
Ward staggered forward, slowing as he reached the center of the rooftop. He looked about. Animals from the taller towers nearby peered out in awe at the unfolding drama, recording it. Up above the helicopter's spotlight cast him into harsh relief. The wind buffeted at his hair and clothes.
"That's enough Ward."
He turned. Yafya stepped closer across the rooftop, with four men behind him guns-drawn. Ward retreated, towards the edge of the building.
"Don't even think about jumping. I'd catch you the moment you turn. It's over. You're coming with us."
Ward took a breath. Every drop of rain that shattered against his skin felt like ice. His heart burned. Another breath, looking at the animals before him. The helicopter pinning him down. The city, to either side, drizzled in the falling rain. Another breath, as he looked up.
"...I'm sorry…" he whispered. Then he fixed his glare on Yafya.
His hand darted for his pocket.
"LONG LIVE HUMANITY—"
The rounds tore through his chest first, then the abdomen, then the cheek, then the chest twice more. Ward was blown back by the sheer force of the ballistics, collapsed on his back, eyes unblinking.
"STOP, STOP!" Yafya screamed, turning on the jaguar. The cat's gun was still smoking. "What the hell did I say?!"
"What?! You said live, but he was going for a—"
"Live no matter what." Yafya growled. He jerked his head for the others to go to the body. Ward's blood mingled with the pooling rain, a scarlet flower on the rooftop. "When I say something, I mean it. When I say 'no matter what' I fucking mean it. I am going to have you written up for insubordination, because now we can't get information from him, and Sage X is going to have a lot to say about—"
"Uh… Yafya?" The pronghorn spoke up. "He… had no weapon. But in his pocket, he had…" Ginger fingers lifted up a mask — the same mask that he had worn on state television.
Everyone froze. Yafya's jaw hung open slightly, as the gravity of what had just happened sank in.
"Oh...I, I… I shot Sage X?" The jaguar's voice was ecstatic. Stars filled his eyes. "I did it! I, I really did it! I—"
"Shut up," Yafya finally growled, jabbing a finger in his face. "You're fired."
His face struggled to process this wild whiplash of emotions. "What… but, I… it's over! Sage X is dead! I killed him! You act like it's a bad thing!"
"Yeah. You killed him… and there's thousands of people out there who followed him. You wanna go advertise your accomplishment to them?"
Yafya could see it all clicking for the jaguar, and horror crept into his eyes.
The horse turned, running his hand through his mane. He glared down at the dead human. Then he pulled out his phone and dialed.
Gon had some explaining to do.