you're too young & eager to love

First piece with the newbie. I'm pretty happy with it, although, as usual, there's no concrete ending. Who needs conclusions, really?

Set in the same universe as Chason and Ita. I typed this up at work, printed it, and retyped it once I got home. I didn't check over it, so read at your own risk, typos may be lurking behind every period. … But hopefully they aren't.

1586 words but I'm too lazy for a cut. <3



The old wars are being forgotten.

Nobody speaks of Korea let alone America’s archaic past of revolutions and civil battles. The European countries are persisting. It’s admirable. Germany has a tenacity for life, but, strangely enough, this new form of genocide has not awoken memories of the past. There are too few alive who remember and less than that even know of the atrocities of Dachau and Auschwitz. The history books are being changed. The power of the written word alters everything when the wrong men wield it.

The compound staff recognizes the lilt of his voice, the accent that flourishes his harsher consonants. But few can place it. They have not left the borders of their own country, and travel is a precarious thing these days. So, they do not call him a Nazi. They are too ignorant to remember the term, and the birth year listed on his medical file and transfer papers declares him far too young to have been part of the Second World War.

The Insurgence is different. Most of its members are educated. Most of its members are older than one hundred years. Most of them knew, sooner or later, that corrupted ideologies were going to spread and form a new branch of marginalization, one that attacked species rather than race. Still, some of the revolutionaries call him Kommandant not so secretly. They keep their interactions with him curt, bristling with thinly veiled suspicion.

They were prepared, to an extent. But the communication is fragmented and slow. The various groups disconnected by distance and, worse, values. There are those who speak of refugee camps and claiming a space of their own, a space somehow protected from the reach of man. Others are more focused on weakening the system, planning for an over-throw. But human allies are far and few between. Forming camaraderie is dangerous, and spies abound like poisonous spiders. Roman situates himself somewhere in the middle. He has seen too many regimes act too rashly, plan poorly, and rely on their own arrogance for success. When an opportunity arose to infiltrate one of the primary human compounds and secure a position of intelligence to the leading commander, he took it immediately.

He has often aligned himself with powerful men, because he understands how the winds can sway.



Adjusting to life on the compound is easy. Some of the children have been born there. It’s hard to assume Roman wasn’t. He blends in when needed to, becoming as steady and constant as the architecture. Despite the occurrence of experiments, cage battles, and legions of preternatural species housed in adjacent facilities, compound life is relatively normal. There is a near communal aspect to it. A friendliness that is bred out of necessity. In the beginning, the husbands and essential works were the first to stabilize the area. Wives and children were brought later. There are luxurious living quarters for the most important workers and more humble alternatives for the less privileged. The food, so far, is warm and constant. They do not yet need to ration. The generators provide more than enough electricity and heat the water that is, thankfully, clean.

Roman is respected. The sheer height and lean strength of his body commands it. His voice is deep, and it adds a rumbling tinge to his laughter, a sound that is not as rare as many would suspect. The wives find him handsome, but the men enjoy his strong personality, skillful story telling abilities, and free-flowing alcohol too much to consider him a threat to their marriages. For all his ability to accept and welcome the people around him, however, there is usually a touch of distance to all of his interactions. They consider him Harrow’s right hand, and the very mention of Harrow’s name is enough to steel any man’s good intentions.

The pets find this to be his most attractive quality. They know about Harrow’s swan girl and his eccentric inclinations towards her, but they think power is something that can protect. Ambition is a blinder. They view Roman as a link, one to be carefully traversed.

A dark skinned girl, barely over the age of seventeen, is the most daring in her pursuits. She’s owned by the chief medical DNA analyst and is unsatisfied with the girth of his stomach and the way his eyes look like a pig’s. She has very long hair that she wears in a braid and is partial to wearing gold jewelry in links around her wrists and one delicate ankle. Roman finds this ironic, but he doesn’t bother explaining it to her.

After the traditional Sunday evening banquet when the majority of the official men slink away to smoke cigars and slide their hands up the thighs of other women, she finds him in an armchair reading a book. He has foregone his usual tie and dress shirt for a casual sweater and worn jeans. Her dress brushes the tops of his knees before he shifts his gaze upward.

“I thought you couldn’t get those anymore.” She has the voice of a child but with a smoky edge. It makes him think of subtropical climates.

“Everything has a price. You should know that.”

“What’s it called?”

“East of Eden.”

“S’funny title. Books are boring. There’s much better ways of being entertained, don’tcha think?”

Roman scoffs, closing the book after he’s folded a corner of the page to remember his place. “Is this your idea of seduction?”

“I’m very rare.”

He stands, and she’s forced to move backwards. Tucking his book under his arm, he affectionately adjusts the fall of her dress from her shoulder. “So am I, liebling.”



Roman drinks whiskey from a tumbler etched in gold. It’s a fine drink, the touches of oak and pepper settling on his tongue. His tie is loosened and he’s thrown his once expensive jacket over the back of his seat. Harrow has done the same, but the younger man fails to look as natural. Relaxation has never come easily to Harrow, and the whiskey only seems to thicken his anger. Roman doesn’t mind. He’s grown used to the insecurities that drive cruel men. They’re something of a specialty to him, partially because he’s always considered himself capable of a similar mindset.

Harrow deals a new round of cards, and Roman protests with a gesture of his long fingers.

Harrow snorts. “Come now. A gentleman should always allow his opponent the chance to win back what he has lost.”

“Das is richtig, aber … Do you see a gentleman here?”

Roman thinks he notices a glint of anger twist Harrow’s thin mouth. It is not the implied jest that ruffles Harrow but the foreign words. He dislikes being reminded of his inability to know all. The moment is tense until Roman laughs, his teeth glinting in the low light, and stands, his chair scraping the floor with the backward motion. He pats Harrow’s shoulder good naturedly, finishes his whiskey in one long swallow, and complains about the stench of animals as he leaves the room.



For a man as appropriately admired and feared as he, his rooms are surprisingly minimal. The walls are empty, the furniture comfortable but nothing particularly beautiful or high quality. He had the floors stripped of their plush carpets, preferring the blanched planks of wood instead. His bed is large but solitary, pushed against the far wall, and posted with thick drapes. Similar curtains line the one wall of windows, although his rooms are on the western branch of the compound – a shadowy, somewhat clinical quarter. He complains of migraines and the ill effects of light and nobody says a word. His hours, due to the regulation of important and confidential work, are peculiar but no more than any other of the compound’s executive advisors.

When he has an electronic number lock for his doors installed, the combination programmed to change every week, Harrow accuses him of paranoia. Roman tells him that contamination is capable of many forms and should never be underestimated. It’s a respectable answer, so Harrow does not broach the subject again.

There is a Spartan quality to his effects. A cleanliness that is born from soldiering and routine. He is kind, if not somewhat quiet, to the ever-changing cleaning staff. He never lets them clean his rooms without him being present, and sometimes the dark-haired girls leave feeling oddly light-heated, borderline confused, and they dream of his eyes for days afterward.



The winters are getting colder. The scientists are still claiming it’s due to global warming, but Roman doesn’t think so. He can feel the change, the looming threat of something still and fearsome, in his old bones. The world is turning barren, only it’s happening too slowly for the humans to notice. He has learned to measure time differently. His capacity for understanding the subtle changes of the world, of people, of the savagery of man is beyond their comprehension. He knows it, and the realization never fails to strike him with a deep sense of loneliness.

He feels like a foreigner in a world that will forever exile him.

It helps to focus on his hunger during such moments. He doesn’t need blood the way younglings do. He has not woken, fueled into consciousness, by the raw ache inside of him for decades. But if he thinks enough, he can still raise the desire. Longing for something is a merciful comfort.

It reminds him of his humanity or what may be left of it.