The Alyssum Twins

Two beasts collide in a coil of fur, claws, and teeth. Buffeting each other in a ferocious dance. The coffee-coloured female clamping her pearly fangs around the neck of her stormy-furred foe, paws squeezing around his underbelly, loosening just before his wheezing crescendos into permanent damage. She can’t kill him, he is her brother after all, but the patrons came for a show. Who is she to deny them. 

Their master’s livelihood, and therefore theirs, depends upon it. There is not a chance in the realm she is going to let herself or Ash get marooned to the pinfold like many of his less gifted creations. And the only way to avoid that: entertain.

It is demeaning. An insult to her true nature and depth of prowess. She was bred for the unhinged brutality of the wild, albeit unintentionally, where the only laws are those unspoken between predator and prey. She has felt it since the day she leapt several feet as though it were a simple skip, the air itself seemed to part for her in veneration as she crashed into her brother. A mere pup at the time and her talents were already lifting the eyebrows of her supposed tamers. 

Nyra could have ripped the pelt from Ash’s frame before he had a chance to form a defensive stance, but a grotesque display like that can land a creature in a place far worse than the pound. A pit you don’t return from. The humans fear what they cannot control.

So, after a tedious fifteen minutes of dallying around to appease the onlookers, Nyra receives instructions from the chip implanted in her skull. Damjan’s maniacal thoughts have her fighting the urge to treat him to a lobotomy. It’s a good thing the technology is uni-directional. He would no doubt lose control of his sphincter if he heard the various inventive manners in which she has envisaged annihilating him. He may be her creator, but he is not her master. Not in any true sense of the word. There is no respect from either party, just a mutually assured survival. 

For now. 

Until she is convinced Ash has the skills and fortitude to execute her plans, she must obey.

As ordered, the wolves dramatically collapse to the ground and the assembly of hundreds erupts into mayhem all the way to the tree line. Across the meadow, petals and pollen are trampled and ripped away to form a cloud of yellow against the mandarin sky. Those on the fringes—dubbed the bronze ring of the makeshift hippodrome—climb over each other to catch a glimpse of action from the famed Alyssum twins.

That better have earned us at least ten steaks each tonight, thinks Ash, deflated from his sister’s bombardment.

An encore might get us to twelve, Nyra suggests.

Fortunately, the twins’ ability to communicate on this level remains unknown to Damjan. 

Only if you cede. 

Nyra tightens her grip. I beg your pardon?

Come on, these fools will be eating it up for days to come. Everyone loves an underdog.

She wavers, eventually acquiescing with an unimpressed gruff. Fine. But I get one of your extra steaks, beating me is reward enough.

I accept, Ash beams.

She shifts off of him and sprints off to circle the ring, posturing victory to the booms of the audience. Those in the first few rows, who have paid Damjan absurd dime for the privilege, strain with outstretched arms over the wooden fence for the chance to skim a hand over Nyra’s coarse—now yellow-dusted—fur. It gives Ash a window to scramble to all-fours and charge like a bull. If his overly-enthusiastic thoughts hadn’t warned Nyra of his advance, the caught gasps of the crowd would have. The noise in the meadow dwindles, and she makes sure to edge as close to the humans as possible; the force of the crash will no doubt crumble the pathetic boundary, and with any luck break a few bones belonging to the benefactors of their servitude. Such is the risk of the golden ring, which apparently some of the psychos find exhilarating.

Pressed up against the slats, dozens of manicured fingers fondle her fur. She retches at the sensation. Dajman’s rhapsodic thoughts as he realizes their intention like a demented fly in her head. He enjoys the thrill of their spontaneity as much as anyone in the crowd because he believes his creations to be no danger to him. Fool. Presuming that just because he was the one to bring them to life, that earns him their unconditional loyalty. Nyra cannot wait for the day she demonstrates his asinine oversight. Patience.

A heartbeat later, Ash slams into her side, splitting the fence as effortlessly as a spider’s web. The momentum drives them several rows into the golden ring, demolishing those too slow or stupid to remove themselves from the path of two killer wolves five times their heft. The crowd roars once more.

From their heap in the dirt, encircled by a mass of legs, Nyra catches the eyes of man splayed on the ground beside her. Crimson pooling over his nauseating pink suit from the plank lanced through his torso.

“It is an honour,” he gargles through the blood in his mouth, reaching for Nyra’s snout, and then his arm collapses and eyes go vacant.

Freak, she thinks in disgust.

 The racket transitions into a repetitive rhythm.

What are they harping on about? she asks as her and Ash rise, the mob shuffling back to give the brutes space. Only when those closest join in the chant, do they make out the words:

Ash Cloud, Ash Cloud, Ash Cloud, Ash Cloud…

The siblings look to one another, Ash unable to contain his glee. New nickname? 

Ridiculous, she mutters and pads away.

Leaving Ash to bask in his faux glory, Nyra crosses the circle and, as per custom, makes for the ringwalk that leads to the virescent forest. It is lined with a mass of popeyed coterie who trace her path, agog with her form and high on violence. With each step she shields her mind from their vehemence a little more, waxing into a quiet place immune to their perversions. One which reminds her of who she is when she feels herself slipping away from nature and into the tenets of sapiens.

She clocks the exchange of coins in the crowd as she makes her way through; the underdog punters will be receiving a fine payday and have no doubt turned into full-blown Ash Cloud supporters. She fears if they remain much longer, Ash might become too complicit in their customs. Already she senses how he not only endures it, but accepts it, is amused by it. How anyone can find joy amongst these cretins, she cannot fathom. 

Dajman’s chip deactivates when Nyra crosses the threshold of the tree line. As she leaves the meadow, her adrenaline withers and her world turns grey. She is not sure how much longer she can endure this demoralizing existence. She may have to accelerate her plans and hope that Ash can keep up. If he follows at all.

Leaving the eventide in the clearing and advancing deeper into the shade of the woods, Nyra cuts through the foliage, slowing to pass three zmei—Dajman’s newest creations—on their way to the meadow. Their act begins at twilight, when the bioluminescence of their scaly skin activates as the final photons of the day dip below the horizon. They trudge along awkwardly on stunted legs, flightless wings protrude from their sinuous figures that are topped with comically giant dragon-like heads. Nyra doesn’t know what Dajman with thinking with these lot. They are full-grown yet half her size. Their unimpressive stature, however, is what makes their abilities evermore stupefying, which is what has kept them out of the pinfold and in their master’s grandiloquent productions. That and their submissive disposition.

The trio sidestep to let Nyra pass, pausing to drop their heads as she does so. Being a veteran of the cohort comes with esteem, and has granted her certain liberties, such as time alone to wander the forest after every show. She must return to the creature compound by midnight; ample time to scheme. A so-called privilege which Ash has also been afforded but rarely makes use of. Nyra returns their nod. Whatever their differences, they too are prisoners.

The humans deliver the word ‘creature’ as they do most sentient beings—laced with paradox. Something sacrosanct but not enough to be their equals. Still just…animals. As though they are the vile ones, without honour or decency. Well, Dajman, as you sow, so shall you reap. With that thought and the zmei behind her, Nyra breaks into full sprint and howls into the night.