Two chimes signaled the floor arrival and as the elevator doors slid ajar and the lingering scent of ammonia swept in. Tahajin’s fur stood erect.

Fear fostered paralysis.

Had a firm melphitic hand not been there to thrust him into the antechamber, the possat would have stood finger-twitching in the lift until the doors slammed shut. As the duo strode into the ammunition-laden vestibule, the floor flickered alight with florescent panels in a cross-etched configuration. Glass exhibition cases were suspended from the walls with the model of a weapon on one side and a video clip of its destructive capabilities on the other. Tahajin traipsed through the corridor, hunched behind the considerably smaller Jay, glancing about with pinprick-small pupils at the holographic banners waving overhead along with the wall-to-wall showcases of destruction. Then rose the stream of Sergei’s accolades. Diplomas, certifications, Fortune 100 awards, even Kill/Death ratios from various VR/SIM shooters. Truthfully, it was no longer the rumors that were instilling fear – it was the thoroughly unhealthy obsession and the exorbitantly imposing door to his central chamber. It held the same gothic inspiration at the rest of Komarov Industrial, but what was frightening about it were the images embossed into the exterior: various methods of execution from all corners of Hirth, abolished or otherwise. Drawn and quartering, lethal injection, guillotine, slow evisceration, electrocution, flaying… What made it even worse is that each figure was animated by an array of gears, yet they only seemed to move when you had gazed upon them for a full five seconds.

Jay directed the possat to go stand near one of the adjoining pillar while the door’s metrics verified his identity and Tahajin needed no further prompting, skittering behind the support beam with his tail coil around his waist. A heavily distorted voice reverberated through the hall and rattled the display cases.

“BOW.”

Jay knelt down, nigh prostrate with his forehead kissing freshly waxed tiles.

“ARISE AND STATE YOUR NAME.”

Begrudgingly, Jay snapped to his feet – steadily losing patience with these frivolities, “Sergei, it’s 1 in the goddamn morning and I’m far from in the mood to stroke your ego. Run the scanner if you must, but I can assure you no person in their right mind is going to impersonate me.” Hearty laughter cracked the voice modulation, “No doubt about it, that’s the Jay Ednor I remember! Of course, I do need to adhere to the security measures. Can’t get lax, even if it is a friend! Stand in the anatomical stance. Straight posture, palms presented. This shouldn’t take too long.” Once Jay assumed the position, five centimeter-thick metallic rings rose from the floor and locked themselves in midair. As the skunk was bathed in light, one of the panels behind Tahajin was dislodged and a mechanical arm jostled him from his hiding spot. “You, too! Who might this be, Jay? I trust it’s someone you know.” “He’s your last expo applicant,” Jay uttered with a huff as the rings descended from around him and encircled the possat. “Is he now? He appears rather young to be taking on something geared for post-graduates and up. However, if you’re willing to approach me this early in the morning, he’s got to be some sort of intellectual gem, eh?”

Centrifugal biometrics descended back into the floor and an array of pneumatic locks fired off in tandem as the door ceased its incessant mechanized diaspora and swung open, slamming against the adjoining walls. There sat the legend, chair faced away from the encroaching skunk and possat. His arm came out from behind the obfuscating seat and gestured forward and that alone was imposing enough to elicit a harsh meep. The musculature on his arm (along with the notched arm fin, denoting his species) would shame an Olympian – both athlete and god.

As the chair began to swivel, Tahajin felt into a full-tilt bow and spouted off, “Sergei Komarov, s-sir! Tahajin Grandville. My most sincere apologies for disturbing you at such an impudent hour of the ante meridian. The mere idea of such is plagued with hubris of the highest caliber. Deliver upon me whatever censorious and admonishing words you deem necessary and feel not the need to approach me with obliqueness!” Jay’s face audibly fell and Sergei burst into fits of snorting laughter followed by hurried gurgling. “I’m not sure where that came from, but it was funny nonetheless! Jay, is this child always this energetic?” All the skunk could dare offer as a response was a raucous groan as he pulled up a chair. Tahajin goose-stepped to his own seat, unconsciously shifting his attire in something more suitable for the occasion: Blazer, business slacks, formal tie, dress shoes… Even his unkempt ponytail coiled itself into a braid.

“Ah! You weren’t just a-kidding when you said he was an adept shapeshifter! That was almost a seamless wardrobe alteration. I’d give it a…8 out of 10.” Sergei was actively trying to inject the room with levity in spite of the fact that his visage was lending nothing to his efforts. Everything about the shark was chiseled to a fine point, from his hair down to his snaggletoothed simper and calling him muscle-bound would be a gross understatement. The only thing that wasn’t tapered was the bulbous aquatic re-breather straddling his gills. He certainly lived up to the rumors regarding his imposing physique, but all the other reports regarding an alleged iniquitous nature were “Damned lies. I would have given that a 7.5 just because of the execution and jittering. You’re far too generous a judge as always, sharky.”

“Well, you know me! Now, you said…Tahajin here is going to try and apply for a contestant position at the expo? I trust you’ve given him the +5 Pamphlet of Edification, right?”

“Actually, this was rather spur of the moment and I didn’t have a copy of the rules and reg on hand. I was actually banking on you having some extras stashed around here.”

“Something that wasn’t thoroughly plotted out coming from you, Jay? Now that’s disturbing. Anyway, I’m plum out as well – so I’ll have to fetch the reel. I do hope your friend’s a fan of wordy explanations.”

“Once you get to know him, you’ll slap yourself for saying that.”

Sergei flounced out of his seat and ambled for the shelves adjacent to the windows and wrenched a holographic stand from his holster. He said something else in passing, but not a word of it permeated the possat’s ears. In fact, the entire room was being drowned out by a single thought: THIS is Sergei Komarov? There’s not so much as a shred of malice in him and he’s gone a full half hour without spewing invective! How could someone like this be the world’s leading connoisseur in lethal weaponry? Creaks of upholstery rived Tahajin’s musings as the shark sat back down and prepared the projector. An old universal leader countdown prefaced the salutatory kinetic typography (which, for some odd reason, bore a sepia filter).

[Estrogen Molotov Cocktails and Testosterone Troglodytes…]

Now THAT’S the Sergei that’s publically maligned.

[…I welcome you to the New Year. Why so late, you might ask? Simple. The year does not truly begin until the month of the Komarov Expo. Sixty days of fierce competition between intellectual peons who bear the same fatuous thought that they deserve a seat alongside on the pantheon of genius weaponsmiths. Millions will apply. One thousand will be accepted. One will win – and the others will be presented with the reality that they are just anomalous chaff…]

The rules, though loquaciously spat, were quite simple.

There were two primary categories for the contestants: Offense and Defense. These were divvied up into subgroups that ensured there would be no more than ten and no less than eight to a subcategory. The winner from each division would then be jettisoned to a tournament-style bracket and pitted against someone with a complementary prowess. The loser is eliminated, forced to leave the city limits and forfeit all permissions and blueprints to the victor. The next rounds are variables and the title bout is a tag team matchup between both participants’ best inventions. One must be autonomic while the other must be user integrated/controlled. There was a zero tolerance policy for design plagiarism, round clemency, and evaluator nepotism. If any person contributing to the expo, be it judge or contestant, found guilty of the aforementioned were subject to tortures worse than death – personally administered by Sergei himself. Of course, THAT portion was left ambiguous so that imagination could override the feasibility cortex. Deadlines and prerequisites were the next on the subject conveyor. There wasn’t a set age requirement, but everything from academic standing to the results of recent physicals was taken into account to filter the debris. Only the cream of the crop were allowed anywhere near the Nucleus – Xiphos’ largest convention center.

Tahajin’s look of indignation crossed with fear shown through the diaphanous screen, but that wasn’t the end. Not by a long shot.

[…I hope you simpletons have familiarized yourselves with the rules. The previous Triumphant and C.E.O. of Ballistic Ergonomics Incorporated, Richard Mendenhall, will deliver the closing address…]

The ‘closing statement’ became an oral dissertation of non-information. It was nothing but an executive rambling on and on and breaking the streams of consciousness with ‘winner rhetoric’. The only thing it managed to accomplish was putting Jay to sleep and forcing Tahajin to occupy himself swapping from elasticating one arm around the other to staring at the arabesques on the ceiling. What brought the room back to life was how the somnolent ox ended his lecture.

[…And those are words to live by.]

Ill-timed guffaws all around!

“Of course those are words to live by! I do believe you used every word in the dictionary, you corpulent scrub!” The sheer fact that SERGEI, of all people, was the one to say that brought Tahajin to thralls of chucklemeows as he chimed in. “Yes, yes! Let’s scrounge together ever philosophic saying any victor has ever said and jam it together to form some sort of cohesive whole – because EVERYONE’S a fan of regurgitated prosaicisms. I’d rewind it and COUNT the platitudes if it wasn’t for the fact that his voice was more monotone than an early Attosoft Narrator.”

“ATTOSOFT NARRATOR! HAHA! Ay like the cut o’ your jib, boy.”

That comment silenced the possat – and it was all thanks to that uncanny diction.

It wasn’t crass or even pompous! It was light… Wan, even…

The stark discrepancy between the televised Sergei and the one recumbent in front of him was truly starting to concern Tahajin. Either it was just some sort of façade that he put or for kicks or he had some incredible bipolarity. Returning the hologram’s stand back to the shelves, Tahajin struggled to rouse his aromatic companion from his torpor. Several thousand frantic shakes later, Jay responded with a snort and an elongated, arid ‘what?’ The possat NEEDED to get out of there. Anxiety was boiling and if he didn’t step away from the smiling, serrated fire – he’d have another explosion of nonsense similar (if not worse) than what happened when they arrived.

“I’m just going to run to the bathroom, alright? I’ll ask him where it is and I’ll be back ASAP. Just…you know, chat with him and fill out any legal documents that he may throw your way,” was Tahajin’s urgent whisper, “Trust me, you’ll have to act as my proxy for all of thirty minutes, tops. I just need a break before I hyperventilate.”

“I thought…you didn’t even neeeeed to breathe…”

“That’s beside the POINT! Please, Jay.”

“Ooohhh you’re so lucky I care about ya… Fine, fine. I’ll print your name on the dotted line, but you’ve gotta sign it when you get back.”

Words of appreciation were caught up in a flurry of movement as Tahajin hurriedly excused himself. In his haste, he completely forgot to inquire were the bathroom was, which led to demure traipsing back to the door. “Fifth door down the hall to your left, past the ballistics exhibition – you’ll see it!”

“Thanks!”

SLAM.

Is this legitimately happening right now? What is even going ON here?! Why is Sergei’s disposition that of an English professor: Affable in private – but when an audience congregates or his voice will be hurt in public, he turns into this conceited gasconading blowhard? There’s nothing about him I can fault. He’s a perfectly fine, albeit eccentric individual – but I’m guilty of excessive oddities, too…! There’s got to be some reason why he’s the epitome of crass in public, but wan in private! Is it to save face of something?

Dumfounded and borderline panicked, Tahajin busied himself with frantic postulation as he sauntered in the vague direction Sergei had given him – pausing momentarily whenever he hit a deep trough of thought. Regardless of occupation, one would think that you’d desire a positive public opinion rather than a negative one.

• TBC –