A Castaway Onto The Promised Land - A Story Of A Legionnaire

[KyferLegs (Diria)]

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    Eleazar Sayal, that's what the geriatric and worn I.D. said. Its cheap, damp edges crumpled within plastic against the interior of Eleazar's damp raincoat, which he had tacked onto the left side of his suit chest pocket with a low-grade clip that broke long ago and was hastily fixed with tape in the early morning before his most recent contract as a 'refinement quality consultant.' Eleazar scowled, reading the foreign street signs in the Orthorian language while constantly juggling finding his bearings and glancing at the gray clouds, hoping for some form of respite. Regardless, the gloomy climate of the day didn't provide any consolation. Instead, the rain continued its barrage through opaque skies, soaking the fur on his scalp and triangular ears as the rain ran into his eyes, forcing him to blink and curse under his breath. The only prospect he had not to be soaked and smelling of wet dog was to rush and find his destination based on the paperwork trail in a disorganized stack within the briefcase he towed in his left hand. Thus, he recklessly paced, practically jogging across the slippery pavement, along the seemingly unending brutalist-esq factory wall like a rat in a maze. The large, wide-spanning structure scarcely muffled the ceaseless din of manufacturing and processing for the Orthorian State. By now, the sights, the industrial district of this halve of Volgora, and its downer architecture had already bested against Eleazar's standards of amusement; its oppression and the putrid air enveloping the sprawling factories had long sapped any sense of passion or vigor he had for the years of foreign lands before he had gone overseas to work in the small Granuras nation. The walls, by now, blended into one; the sceneries remained invariant, enduring, and dull to him. Most of his friends or colleagues had already disappeared to fight in the war; Orthoria was their home; it was only reasonable. Regardless, the company of tired, overworked, or simply tired factory workers, especially on the job, wasn't pleasant or pleasing to Eleazar's waning zeal.

    Ultimately, an entrance interrupted the plain, bare, dark brick and concrete wall's void of attraction or lure. The giant, barn-like doors came into view, ostensibly like the gates to heaven or deliverance to the soaked Zarou, in contrast to their mundane purpose, which was to move goods. As he dashed nearer, the gateway came increasingly closer to feasibility as the farthest pair of the entrance was a foot or two ajar, the scale of which was discernible due to the discrepancy of the sheer size of the loading or offloading ramp and its dim shadow. However, as rationale came to senses, for a juncture, the idea of entering from such an angle saddled Eleazar's mind with an aversion to his physical and superficial appearance, as the precipitously assembled style of an old, putrid green raincoat did garner the chance for him to be mistaken for a vagrant rather than a contract worker. Then, more paranoidly, the fact he was Zarou, a non-humanoid, could conceivably cost him more than just his previous day's earnings or even dignity if he bumped into the wrong crowd. Yet, paranoia aside, being a contract worker was a prominent anchor to bypass trouble, particularly inside factories and businesses, when they needed an expert on whether they were up to standard and going to make a profit. Proving such a notice was an effortless way to get someone off your case. As for the average Orthorian wartime citizen, interrogating some foreigner who walked into an offramp was less consequential than losing your employment for ruining the supervisor's day or the boss's quota.

    That latter thought satisfied him enough to attempt his grand escape from the rain, and thus, Eleazar slipped inside. The clattering of machinery, activity, and voices struck his sensitive ears like a hammer to the skull. He gritted his teeth, the spontaneous gesture causing his fangs to dig into his gum by casualty, which subsequently, both discomforts drove his tail to go rigid against his back, the appendage having been shoved up into his fastened raincoat long ago when the deluge had caught him on the boulevard from where the bus had stopped, and then the ensuing trek to the factory he had managed to snag a decent contract with. The best assignments were always in Volgora. Yet, with the ongoing war, such positions had become more burdensome or risky, especially with the Orthorian Capitol being as close to the frontlines as it was. Eleazar straightened, his senses adjusting to the deluge of movement within the warehouse or now clearly the smelting branch of the factory floor. The ceiling and awning in impression went on forever, the sky obscured predominantly by grey and black metal sheets, though damaged through time, as the rain seeped in areas, with buckets, barrels, and pails strewn across the floor and catwalks to catch the dripping water. Eleazar couldn't help but squint, his presumptions and expectations beyond the infraction he noted likely bleak compared to the norms schooling had apprised him of, and this was a significant infraction, even before he could pull his clipboard out of his briefcase.

    He soughed, surveying and scrutinizing the factory workers next as they passed by in front of him, one exclaiming in Orthorian about completing a shift or a task to another individual, presumably a supervisor, who leaned on a rusty catwalk railing high above smoking a cigarette without much care or engagement. At the same time, a cauldron at the far end of the factory floor began to tilt, its red molten ooze being poured into another significant piece of machinery or equipment that took the shape of a comically large funnel. He acknowledged the methodology and procedure of such from the distance he was at, the molten slag's heat practically radiating off the red, warm giant cauldron. In Eleazar's opinion, the preference for its rotation or tilting needed to be modernized, but it was relatively routine for the smaller corporation that owned the factory. Regardless, the manual labor of the workers dictated its position and angle, and they used their collective strength to tug and guide it with attached chains or ropes. The cauldrons usually rested with bearing wheels lubricated between strong steel supports akin to rails. Thus, despite looking treacherous, the chances of a giant vat of boiling metal plunging to the ground were scarce if the factory operator kept maintenance. Similarly, the job before him was done virtually every day worldwide, compared to the rarer presence he had seen within Orthoria. Correspondingly, he was delivered a diminutive amount of satisfaction and consolation that the workers nearby had at least adorned thick leather protection.

    However, he still couldn't pardon the water damage nor create a sense of ignorance about the roof's likely abhorrent condition. Judging by the state of the catwalks and specific equipment across the large smelting floor, it had been that way for a long time, likely even before the war. He shut his eyes in frustration, took a long breath, and let a few long seconds pass as he remembered his father's workshop within the vacant community garage, despite the ongoing sounds around him being boisterous and busy compared to the rhythmic clang of his father's hammer on an old, generational anvil, the noise regardless let him travel to that instant where he used to sit and eavesdrop from the bottom stair attached to the rear entrance of the mixed-use structure that his family leased out of by the mercy of another family who ran a barber shop on the bottommost floor. He could recall that delighted smile from across the driveway, his father shouting in excited Veraki whenever he turned a rusted tool back to pristine condition. Those were the days, the innocence of youth. He'd gossip with his bigger sister about what the older boys downstairs said about her appearance. She'd brag about becoming an aide to the local dentist. Then, his father, every day, would yank him aside and educate him on something new, usually all things handy when it came to tools, building, or simple capability, like how to remove a stripped screw with ease. Eleazar then opened his almost misty eyes, which, with a fleeting blink, the dampness of tears immediately became indistinguishable from rain. Then, a table of rusted, deserted tools grabbed his attention. "Electrolysis." The term practically fell from his maw, the memory of his father's lectures incurring the spontaneous resolution to bring about those forgotten tools' service; oh moons, wouldn't they catch a pretty penny in the flea market?

    He snorted, then flustered, his head swiveling to see if anyone heard his slip of normalcy, though, fortunately, the workers he had scrutinized had already ventured off far enough that the noise likely, assumingly, deafened them to Eleazar's presence. Convincing himself the coast was clear, Eleazar stifled his embarrassment, and having stood in limbo and self-reflection long enough upon the offramp with seemingly uncaring or unaware nearby workers, he pressed onwards, keying his attention to the signage that indicated him towards the managerial sections and office spaces of the factory. The transition to such was consistently staggering and somewhat depressing, especially when you'd start your journey from the bottom of the metaphorical cannon fodder pits of the job hierarchy of factories. He recalled the Orthorians within his memories, who had been around him in stores or bars; their more, rarer conversations were either drunken slurs or long debates, carried by passionate arguments, near violence, and then back to shopping or drinking as if nothing had transpired. However, more or less, his mentality came to the labels they'd remark in those circumstances, such as the phrases bourgeoisie or the proletariat. Whenever he envisioned those hypnotized pyramids of wealth, the departments and branches of a factory personified it most to himself. The ground floor was your toiling and hard labor work, like the cauldron staffers, machine operators, and more, which required large teams of people, and they'd carry that immense toll. Still, ironically, those same individuals were the least paid and garnered the slightest respect or praise.

    Regardless, as Eleazar passed row, on row, of large internal silos, the surrounding maze-like catwalks, machines with their operators, inspection tables, and molds, he ultimately arrived upon what reminded him of the photos and sketches of the border between Diria and Verak, which he had grown up hearing all about in history classes taught by his mom's friend. The sight was lofty but neat, consisting of straight gray putty between red bricks encompassing the far facade of the factory floor's supposedly concluding length, its stout width efficiently dampening any noise. Yet, in stark contradiction to the rigid barrier in front of Eleazar, it posed a quaint duo of dual doors, an escape to the harshness of the sights behind, as their finish of dark wood with bronze knobs and trim surrounded each of their opaque windows, mistifying the impression beyond. The entries had some wear, principally regarding the archaic hinges and doorknobs, where their bronze coats had faded, revealing generic gray metal from the hundreds to thousands of palms, twisting it open. Nonetheless, of their age, this was the division of the pyramid's base. It conveyed you into the bowels of its middle, the lower administration, a more leisurely but conceivably monotonous layer of factory employment that practically droned upon Eleazar's mental state, considering, if he could fit into any class division, it'd be this. He looked down upon himself, staring at the dastardly vomit-green raincoat tightly bound across his shoulders and hanging relatively low, near to his ankles. He wanted to throw it away, but it was too much of a monetary burden to pay for a replacement, and he'd be committing blasphemy to the instruction of his mother and her tact to recycling. Thus, instead, and placing his briefcase base down beforehand, he unfastened the internal coat ties around his neck and waist and then gradually unbound its large silver color buttons from their slits, the raincoat's weight practically causing it to fall off his shoulders once it came undone.

    He gave it a hefty shake, water-slapping the adjourning wall and hitting propaganda posters that had already begun to peel from time or water damage. Either way, nobody would care about them. With a brisk fold of the raincoat, he tossed it over his right shoulder, it slapping his back and now revealed tail, its fur pulled flat, and the actual base of the appendage held stiffly in place from the buttoned and fastened hole that his white button up, and dark brown suit had come tailored with. Internally and externally, he felt and looked much more professional and confident, his left hand shooting up to correct the appearance and straightness of his solid emerald green tie. His left hand lowered, tilting his left hip to allow him to grab the briefcase he had placed on the ground. Finally, he was ready, and he stepped forward, his right hand reaching up to open the closet door and quickly shutting it behind him so as not to disturb the noise with the loud commotion from the factory floor. The change of scenery was as envisioned, but the far more balanced composure was filled with active typewriters, broken by occasional voices of workers asking each other for paperwork or any boring task necessities. Regardless, the environment was predominantly tolerable in its aura, which let Eleazar's jaw relax, surprising him since he hadn't realized it had tautened as much as it did.

    A few eyes glanced up at him, and Eleazar awkwardly glanced back to one of them, a woman, her long brown hair tied in a high-sitting stylized bun with a white clip, but her bangs hung loosely, likely having fallen out as she remained hunched over her desk illuminated by an old, yellow light shared between a handful of other desks. He stood at the exit for a prolonged period, partway fixated on the woman, who had already turned her eyes down to focus on their work. The door opened behind Eleazar and another individual in a blue suit squeezed by the stationary Eleazar, his round-rimmed reading glasses reflecting light, concealing his eyes as the unknown man muttered a brief apology and disappeared into the assortment of other desks hidden by decorated foldable dividers. Eleazar peeled his eyes away, forcing himself to hurry forward and wander down the decadent and tended-for brown trim and greens of the spaces plastered wallpaper, the floor consisting of aging wood creaking beneath his shoes as he glanced at a couple of tarnished white and black labels shaped either as an arrow, some naming tags marking rooms, other employees, and others direct to the exit. Ultimately, following the labels, Eleazar reached the epicenter of the administrative area of the building. The direction-providing labels came to populate in sizeable quantities a large strut that supported the roof. It was shaped like a doric column, furnished and designed in wood, but the apparent centerpiece design of the space barely caught his attention; instead, an arrow did, it pointing left, above, and proudly over all the countless labels with the more giant and bold letters that spelled out the manager.

    Eleazar looked left, seeing the hallway between two out-of-place enclosed spaces, their walls split between the green wallpaper, brown trim, and clean opaque glass obscuring the contents. He pressed onwards, pacing down the hallway while quizzingly skimming at the opaque windows when moving past and occasionally peeking through a few ajar doors propped open with doorstoppers or trashcans, revealing either empty conference rooms or neatly dressed individuals fawning over graphs or charts. Yet, the encased spaces, conference rooms, or private areas began to wane in quantity as Eleazar looked up at a single door he had helmed to. It was akin to the administration entrance that divided the factory floor with its blue-collar workers and offices and desks of the white-collar ones. Regardless, besides their anticipated architectural similarity, this door instead was less aged, its knob still entirely bronze in appearance, and incorporated a distinction in its window, having a wood bar that divided the opaque window into two halves that allowed for the incorporation of a nameplate reading out manager's office. Eleazar took a moment to inspect himself, ensuring his tie was still straight, his suit jacket was clean, and his shoes weren't muddy. Everything seemed in order, besides the still hideous raincoat over his shoulder that was to be immediately hung on a coat rack if applicable, which was conceivable in its forthcoming placement, as most establishments on the coast in Orthoria had them. Thus, content with what he saw, Eleazar opened the door with his right hand and entered, closing it politely behind him and taking a moment to study the waiting room. Its floor was beige carpet, and the walls a blend of red with wood trim that was unanticipated as it was grandiloquent. Yet, the immediate appearance was close to the extent that it appeared tainted in its forthcomingness, Eleazar's mind going back to that thought of class pyramids and how this could inferred as the top of it.

    However, before he could glance anymore into the room, with its small chairs with maroon cushions and bright yellow lights fixated on a simple chandelier, a curt but relatively soft voice rose Eleazar from his contemplation or speculations of what was the typical tone or personality of the occupants who inhabited the office room. That inquiry rested behind a cracked door that a secretary seated in front of, the lower half of her body hidden by a surprisingly austere wood desk suspended by bronze-coated legs. The desk adorned a lamp, stacks of papers, typewriters, and other organization or managerial work necessities. But, it became apparent that was where the voice originated from a secretary, her blonde hair curled to her shoulders. A reasonably common separates dress that was likely divided in two by a belt against her waist, hence the name, or so, at least Eleazar assumed as he took a moment to comprehend what she said, likely a question, and then their choice of words through their surprisingly thick non-native Volgoran Orthorian accent. However, the woman nearly began to speak again, more intensely and harshly, their mouth creasing for a second as they hunched forward, the idea and prospect of such compelling Eleazar to finally say, or more so, clamor out. "Hello, yes, sorry, I'm here to see Mr. Stanković."

    The woman seemed dazed and almost defensive, then she raised an eyebrow, looking down at one of the stacks of papers on her desk. Quickly, as they were there, she gracefully moved them aside and into a brown cardboard box close to her heel. Next, her same hand, completing the prior motion entirely itself, then pressed its pointing finger down onto a part calendar, part time table sheet; it tapered onto the desk surface itself and murky with eraser marks. A few seconds passed, causing Eleazar to fiddle uncomfortably with the folded cuffs of his jacket. Fortunately, the secretary's face then lighted in expression, a subtle audible sense of clarity and alleviation emitted as she looked back up. "Oh, you must be Mr. Sayal. Forgive my confusion; You're just here a bit earlier than anticipated. He has you down for an inspection and appraisal of the factory floor?" Eleazar quickly nodded, and the woman then marked the time stamp with a pencil, the time now crossed out. "Alright then, just give me a moment, Mr. Sayal, and I'll see if Mr. Stanković is ready." The secretary then stood up unhurriedly. Eleazar's previous assumption was correct: a belt separated her dress from the waist. Regardless, she quickly turned to the door behind her, knocked, and stepped inside halfway. A brief exchange ensued, and Eleazar looked at the standing grandfather clock on the left side of the waiting room while he waited; he was practically on time. He didn't think much of it, and as quickly as the exchange began, it ended, and the secretary returned her attention to Eleazar curtly. "Okay, Mr. Sayal. He'll see you now." Without any more courtesy or interaction to engage herself in, she sat down once more, grabbed the stack of papers from the box she had put them in, and returned to work.

    Eleazar's right ear flicked, glancing back towards the grandfather clock and then to the forward. With some concern or hesitation, which Eleazar found personally unfounded, as he had done this dozens of times, he stifled the feeling, or at least ignored it as he continued forward, making his way carefully but briskly past the secretary and into the factory manager's office, shutting the door behind him. Mr. Stanković's office, in terms of its walls, floor, and lighting, was comparable to the waiting room, except that Stanković had decorated the room with photos, paintings, and a head fixture of a deer. Similarly, there were two windows, one overlooking the boulevard outside, covered in rain droplets, and the other was behind Stanković himself, covered by curtains the same color as the walls, likely showcasing the administrative offices. Regardless, Stanković was actively dumping the remaining contents of decorated shot glass into a trashcan behind his large, engraved, and fancy full wood desk, the origin of said shot glass, a bottle of gold-colored rakija still on his desk resting against the plentiful piles of disorganized documents, a lamp, a pocket watch, pens, and other personal items. He was surprised when he heard the door close, having to double-take as he saw the anthropomorphic Zarou waltz in. He stammered and grabbed the neck of the bottle of alcohol on his desk between his fingers with the shot glass and quickly put them on the floor under his desk as the two glass objects clinked together till they rested. Stanković put both his hands on the desk, smiling up towards Eleazar, and stood up as if he was seeing family, the items on his desk shaking as he maneuvered around the desk and towards Eleazar, outstretching his hand for a handshake while loudly boasting out loud. "Mr. Sayal, it is a pleasure to meet you finally. Sit, sit!"

    Eleazar politely reciprocated the handshake, giving the firmest grasp he could while he looked up at far taller Stanković, his dark ebony hair with a few greys reflecting against the lights in the room. Similarly, the man's evident and cared-for imperial beard surprised Eleazar; despite said facial hair being seen before by the Zarou, the style was seemingly unexpected for what he envisioned in the factory manager. Nevertheless, Eleazar flashed a professional smile, his arm continuously jerked up and down by Stanković, who shortly relented, breaking the gesture of goodwill and returning to his desk to sit, fumbling through valid and on-topic paperwork. At the same time, Eleazar, who, while Stanković sat down, glanced at the hat and coat rack standing snuggly by the door and took the opportunity to hang and stow away his putrid green raincoat. Right after, Eleazar then went to sit, reaching for one of two chairs that were resting at an offset angle in front of Stanković's desk; it was far more uncomplicated compared to Stanković's fancy chair, but it still corresponded to the theme sufficiently. Once sat, he placed his briefcase on his lap. It was negligibly still damp from his waltz or run in the rain but not enough to concern the well-being of his suit or the leather of the case itself. Still, he analyzed the case just to be sure and opened its two silver-colored latches with a click.

    "I see you got caught in the rain. Dastardly, it can be. I hope you didn't get too wet." Stanković glanced at the raincoat past Eleazar, the clock on the wall across from him, and then looked toward his guest. His face and lips went tepid as he watched the Zarou open their briefcase and sort through the documents inside. "...Anyways, Mrs. Šiljan told me about your impending appearance. I hope nobody gave you any trouble." Stanković cleared his throat and reached down to a printed pair of papers; the first was a page with prompts and some empty boxes, and the other was a spreadsheet of a lengthy series of numbers, reports, and more about the factory's current operation. He placed both in front of him as neatly as possible and glanced back up patiently at Eleazar.

    Eleazar, once he had sorted the case adequately enough, it needed to be more organized to an outside observer. Yet, he put anything required for today's consulting on top of everything else and similarly pulled out the clipboard he had thought of earlier when he noticed the rain trickling through the factory floor roof. Closing his briefcase, he put the clipboard on top, pulling the pen held in place by the clipboard's clip, and glimpsed back up at Stanković. "I had no troubles, though I do appreciate your concern. Do you have that consultant sheet printed out? I would've brought my own, but I was informed that wouldn't be necessary." Eleazar spoke plainly and forwardly, not much emotion in his green eyes as his tail curled up against his leg in the chair unsuited for non-humanoids, though his smaller size did help.

    Stanković quickly reached down again to his desktop, pulling the first of the two papers he had collected just prior and gestured it to Eleazar, which Eleazar himself grabbed and murmured a brief thank you while placing the paper against his clipboard after he took a moment to read and get acquainted with the page. Flipping the paper over, he then jolted down a deduction about the rain damage to the roof and its possible consequences, which he saw earlier. Stanković almost frowned when he saw the page flip and Eleazar's action of writing on it, having familiarized himself with the layman's terms of the front being good and the back being bad. Leaning forward and clasping his palms against his lap underneath the table, he spoke with calm concern. "I know it's not my exact area of expertise, but don't you think we should review our numbers and sheets first? I assure you personally, our steel quality and production quotas are exemplary, considering all that has happened these past two years." He smiled and lifted the paper before him, only to be interrupted by Eleazar's reply.

    "I'm sure you have your own experience. However, it would be better to appraise the conditions of the factory floor before. Graphs and numbers can only say so much. Besides, it is standard procedure to inspect the premises first in many other nations, and when I informed Mrs. Šiljan of my methods, she seemed more than eager to proceed with my contract." Eleazar tilted his chin down and smacked his lips, trying to remember and mention any more details, or at least anything valid, and shrugged when nothing came to his mind. He then looked back up, staring at Stanković with a candid indication. "So that won't be necessary, but is there anything else before I begin?" He maintained his tone, unchanging and remaining in the same manner he had articulated earlier. He then glimpsed back toward his clipboard, securing the paper onto it, and set it against his briefcase.

    In reaction, Stanković went nearly pale with fear, besides his reddish lips and ears, then looked down at the production numbers on the paper before him. His right leg began to shake against the ground as contemplated. The room was awkwardly silent for a moment, besides the clock ticking, the secretary who wrote on paper, and the patter of rain on the window. Stanković suddenly had an idea, jolting his hands up from the clasped position, accidentally slapping the table while he looked back up to Eleazar. "Well, I guess it's natural we start with the loading docks, which should have all the unprocessed iron. It might take a while since most workers are on lunch and need to pull the containers inside; smelters don't like damp iron, as you know. Though, shame about the downpour. I heard it is supposed to end in an hour or so, and most workers are back about then." He let out a melodramatic sigh and reached down, bending his back, then pulling open one of the drawers embedded in his desk and rummaging around aimlessly, items of varying purposes clattering as if to grab something necessary he lost, yet at the same time, Stanković would keep his head down, but peek up with his eyes, scrutinizing Eleazar's reaction.

    Eleazar did not react, or at least remarkably, having appeared more inconvenienced, the creases of his muzzle's lips tilting down negligibly alongside his ears. Instead of being persuaded by Stanković's attempt to entice him to stay and read the spreadsheet, Eleazar began to sit up, the chair's cushions creaking, while he regained footing. It wouldn't be surprising if he hadn't even realized Stanković's ploy. Consequently, he set his briefcase on the chair to the left of him, taking priority of the clipboard with the checklist and pressing it into his chest while letting out a tired sigh. Finally, he turned around and toward the door, strutting to where he had hung his hated raincoat.

    Stanković's eyes went wide as they peeked up only to see the Zarou with their back turned and walking away. Panic seeped into his mind, and he defaulted to the only alternative he could think of. Without much hesitation or control of their desperate emotions, Stanković closed the drawer he rummaged through with a sudden slam and quickly swiveled in his seat to the other side of his desk in a hurry. The noise and unrest caught the attention of Eleazar, who pivoted around on his heel, only to see Stanković fumble with another drawer, their left hand reaching across the desk, grabbing a key, which hastily was used to unlock the drawer. Then, the key was tossed back onto the tabletop while Stanković, now using his right hand, pulled out a large, rich brown leather travel wallet filled with contents. He flipped it open and began to count the bills with his once more free left hand and finger. Then, he pulled out a sizeable stack of Orthorian dinar, which Stanković quickly positioned in front of where Eleazar had just previously sat near the table. At the same time, they also skimmed at the open window, ensuring there weren't any witnesses. "Mr. Sayal, I insist. I can't imagine it would hurt for you to review the spreadsheets now." He pushed the stack of dinar against the table, placing it down. After, he reached back into his drawer, grabbed an unused envelope, and placed it on top of the stack, hiding it from plain sight. "Besides, you haven't even been paid yet; I can't dare ask you to work in the rain without compensation."

    Eleazar uncomfortably and instinctively stiffened up at the wad of cash covered by the yellow envelope. It was no more than a bribe placed in front of his chair. Clearing his throat anxiously and defensively, he adjusted his tie in consideration as he stared at the money. However, he conceded to his instincts, letting go of his tie, and instead pressed his palms together and bowed gratefully. "I appreciate the gesture." Eleazar glanced at the open window mid-bow. People in raincoats hurriedly walked down and across the street, seemingly unaware of the predicament that he was in. His mind raced, and all sorts of morals, regulations, and teachings from school and his parents informed him to stand stalwart against this heinous act. He stood straight again, lowering his hands to his sides. "However, I was informed quite clearly that my payment would be received in the mail, not by you, Mr. Stanković." He flashed a muted smile, almost turning around, only for his professionalism and obstinacy to be interrupted by the clink of an object or a nearly full bottle of rakija that Stanković remorsefully positioned next to the stack of the dinar, the expensive label carefully positioned directly at Eleazar.

    Stanković leaned back in his chair, creaking under his weight while he preserved his stare towards Eleazar, trying to maintain a charismatic and calm demeanor. Regardless, the expression in their eyes and the pale complexion of their skin showed they were scared and desperate. It didn't take a genius to assume why. They had things to hide, and their career was likely on the line. Stanković smiled, his lips practically twitching, while he anxiously placed his hands against his upper thighs while sighing dramatically once again. "Well, accounting errors happen constantly, and it's not like you're doing anything illicit; you're just... Taking a different perspective." He then placed his right palm on the spreadsheet again, rotating it around correctly so Eleazar could read it without much effort. Then, he once again gestured for him to come and look. The motion conveyed as if he were a friend trying to garner attention.

.   .   .

    Eleazar remained motionless against the twin-sized bed he rested on within the corner of his small, single-dwelling apartment with white walls and blue trimming, all riddled and degraded with time but not enough to be specifically hazardous. His head had rotated towards the window across from him, which was simple and aged in design; it was right above his work desk, whose papers, documents, and photos messily adorned its tabletop and elevated shelf, partially obscuring the sights of the lower half of the window. By now, the muscles within his neck had begun to cramp as he lost track of morning time, his head pounding from the afternoon and night before. Regardless, he knew he had to get up, or he'd break his hours. Thus, finally, with a pained groan and his right hand clasping the side of his neck, he pulled himself up using the strength within his core. The world faded for a moment as Eleazar felt sick and lightheaded, his eyes looking to the side of the bed where his metal nightstand was, the nearly empty bottle of expensive rakija, and the closed fat envelope full of dinar reminding him unwelcomingly of his work prior. That, and the knocked-over alarm clock, reminded them of how he hit it to be silent when he was half asleep and hungover. He carefully leaned forward to stand up, but then his tail went stiff, and his ears lowered as he gagged, covering his mouth instinctively with his left hand as he tried to recall all that transpired last night as he stumbled home half asleep.

    Finally, the feeling of vomiting began to subside, and Eleazar carefully stood up, the blanket of his bed falling to the floor partially as he scratched his exposed chest with the same hand he had used to cover his mouth. He groaned, the taste of vomit and morning breath causing him to shake his head in reaction as the smell caused him to recoil physically. Regardless, after recovering and beginning to drag himself toward the restroom, his bare feet and legs shuffled side to side as he lifted his arms above his head and stretched. The floor was rough, its venier long eroded, exposing the bare ground, but respect was due to the architect, as at least shuffling didn't guarantee splinters. Thus, without incident, Eleazar carefully pulled himself into the restroom; its blue tile walls and unknown residue had built up on the corners of the ceiling and refused to come off despite Eleazar's attempts to clean it. However, the immediate objective was to use the restroom for nature's business, which, fortunately, went without incident or him puking his guts out in the toilet. Next was brushing his teeth, which he did with extra thoroughness, considering the smell of his breath. Then, after analyzing his face in the mirror, using his hands to push and preen his dark brown fur that practically absorbed the light around him and made his green eyes contrast strikingly against the blue of the restroom. His hair wasn't long enough to warrant a shave yet, so he decided to do it tomorrow to avoid ingrown hair.

    Finally, he emerged from the restroom, stumbling across the short hall and to the left toward the very compact kitchen next to hydrate himself with tea and break the hangover that caused his ears to ring from the pain against his head and his muscles that ached as much as they did. Rummaging through the cabinets, he pulled a kettle, twisting its cap off, and put it under the faucet as he let water flow inside from the tap he had just turned on, the valve whining from friction of metal against metal. But, once it was full of water, he put the cap back on with an effortless twist, then placed it on the nearby stovetop, lit its burner, and ensured the kettle was on top of it evenly. He soughed, looking up at the window in front of him and above his stove towards the other identical apartment complex across from his second-floor apartment. Within the distant windows, he could spot some movement and families doing morning-related activities, reminding him to look down at himself and remember that he was only in his boxers. A surge of embarrassment and humiliation hit him, his cheeks flustering unknowingly beneath his fur, besides the warmth on them that gave him the sign of it. Thus, he quickly returned to the main living room, which happened to be a part bedroom, where his dresser was. Understanding he had no official plans this morning, he selected some essential but simple clothing pieces: a white undershirt, a pair of khakis, suspenders, and socks. Eleazar slipped on the shirt and socks with no issue. However, he struggled with the khakis, which forced him to roll and rock across the side of his bed to get the tight khakis on, which he then attached the suspenders onto.

    He panted, catching his breath from the struggle with his khakis that tightly squeezed the small gut he had formed over two years. Now, he was undoubtedly more thirsty than ever, but fortunately, as he recovered himself, the kettle in the kitchen began to whistle audibly. His right ear, the closest to the sound, flicked until it rose, registering the fact. Yet, before he got up, he looked at his nightstand again, staring at the envelope full of cash and ignoring the bottle of alcohol. He reached over, the metal frame of his bed creaking loudly under him as he grabbed the envelope tightly. Now, he stood, standing far more efficiently than his first try at getting up. Pursuing his previous footsteps but excluding the restroom, he returned to the kitchen and tossed the envelope full of money onto the dining table for one, it across from the cupboards and stove. He then turned the stove burner off, the kettle's whistle waning as he went to find a mug, pulling it down from the cupboards and placing it on the counter next to the stove, and, subsequently, Eleazar reached for another commodity. A jar that was full of varying tea bags, and he plucked one tea bag out. Eventually, he put it within the mug, grabbed the kettle, and poured its boiling contents into the cup, the warm vapor from such causing fog to build on the window. Putting the kettle back down, he exchanged it for the mug he momentarily placed on the dining table.

    However, Eleazar instantly and unceremoniously swore to himself, remembering how he forgot his pen and paper. Thus, he retraced his steps again and returned to the living room and his work desk. Leaning over it, he brushed the used and empty postal stamp packages aside and grabbed a single piece of paper, a pen, and another envelope. He remained still for a second, feeling he had forgotten something; it then came to him: stamps. He haphazardly returned to the empty packages of stamps he had brushed aside, pulling them up one by one, fumbling through dozens of brown packages holding paper shreds, and dropping any empty ones until ultimately, in one, he found the remains of a single stamp that had been trimmed by scissors a bit too much to his liking. Regardless, it'd have to do. Thus, satisfied, he returned to the kitchen with everything he had collected and placed it all on the table. Dragging the only chair back, consisting of an old ripped cushion on its seat due to the uncomfortable nature of the wood, Eleazar then sat on it. Shifting in his seat to get comfortable, he sipped his warm tea. The brackishness of such a surprise to him, but he wouldn't complain as he put it back down to grab the envelope full of cash instead.

    He held it with both hands as if holding something delicate, his eyes staring down at it with trepidation. For a moment, he felt empty, as if he was hollow, and he whimpered knowingly, his black claws on his fingertips pressing against the uneven and bent creases of the sealed envelope. He carefully used his nails to rip the seal open, the envelope now exposing its contents as its sides protruded, having been bent out throughout their effort to hold the contents inside. Still, he tensed at the stack of the dinar, keeping it within his left hand's fingertips as he closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and comforted himself. He reopened his eyes, pulled the stack of money out, and then started to count. As the stack of dinar's total value increased, he felt a mixture of accountability and solace as he ignored the yet-to-be-delivered or acquired deposit from his P.O. box from the assignment he had done yesterday. With every landmark passed off the worth of currency, he grew eager. He factored bills, living costs, and daily expenses, but then, with a sudden chuff of delight escaping his jaw, he realized this would more than cover his expected contribution back home to his family for the upcoming months. He put the money down, falling back into his chair as his mouth hung agape. A sudden sense of consolation yielded him a profound experience of ecstasy, and he suddenly felt acknowledged for his work over the past five years.

    Eleazar took another sip of his tea and enjoyed the moment before placing his essentially empty mug aside. He then looked down at the paper and pen he had grabbed and smiled with the new sense that this would be an excellent letter to home. However, he would first divide up the money, and by doing the math in his head and on the torn-open envelope with his pen, he could now deduct a portion of the dinar to send home in four installments. Since shipping out more than that might cause a mail carrier to take some for themself, or if it got misplaced, lost, or whatnot, it wouldn't be financially devastating. Yet, there was still a pre-existing concern as he pushed a fraction of the dinar neatly into the new envelope he picked up from his desk. That fear was the reality that it was now the third month in a row that his immediate family had yet to reply to his letters. He quickly forced himself to shrug the thought off, putting the new envelope aside and putting the remainder of the dinar next to his mug. Despite the ongoing great war, he couldn't imagine his family was in immediate harm, as they were far from the current front in western Egris. Secondly, he had begun to trust what the local newspaper said about the fighting within Diria; there wasn't any concern beyond their general well-being due to rationing. And lastly, anytime he felt that those facts together couldn't soothe his uneasiness, he would recall that even before the war, there were periods when his family messages took a long time to arrive in Orthoria.

    Therefore, he began to write, setting the paper evenly before him, then striking and moving the pen across it. He proudly employed his mom's and her friend's writing lessons to their maximum extent; the formality and grade of his writing were some of the things he truly felt complete on, and his opinions and experience with the resident Orthorian's writing made him feel more acceptable since his arrival. Regardless, he recalled all he had experienced over the month, the jobs done, the people met, and the atmosphere of wartime Orthoria, but created the tone that he was safe so as not to trouble or worry his family. Ultimately, and now having to flip the paper over to its back because he had utilized all the space on the front of the page, he got to the part of his letter about yesterday's affairs. He hesitated momentarily and imagined his mom and dad's reaction; their stubbornness and integrity would be indefatigable even if they scarcely considered he had taken a bribe. Sighing, he looked up to the window and outside at the clear blue sky for a moment in thought. He couldn't let them refuse this money; they needed it more than he did, and thus, he lowered his eyes back down with devotion. He omitted all the contentious details of the sudden influx of cash, insisting it was simply the pay he got for a more risky and high-demand contract, and considering this was in Volgora, it was somewhat genuine. Thus, not feeling too appalled by his white lie, he concluded the note with love and his yearning to return to Diria whenever his parents had gotten back on their feet, and with the money coming in, he would imagine it would be soon.

    Eleazar puffed, flicking his wrist, a soft cramp coursing through his arm, causing him to drop the pen. Still, he grinned, and once the pain subsided, he folded the note carefully and placed it inside the other new envelope with the dinar he had portioned out to send home. Lifting it, he licked the flap with his tongue and creased the fold down. Then, he referred to the uneven postal stamp, removing its protective back film and providing a similar lick to position it on the right corner of the envelope. Eleazar clicked his tongue, trying to rid himself of the chemical taste of the task he had just done, and instead, to distract himself, searched for the pen he dropped. Once discovered it had rolled towards the wall next to the table, he picked it back up. After that, he placed the envelope in front of him and wrote his name, address, and other information, alongside the same for the destination the envelope would arrive to or at his family dwelling in Egris. Setting the pen back down in finality, he raised it toward the sunlight through the window, ensuring the dinar inside could not be easily seen. Finally placated, he sat up from the chair and pushed it back under the table with his left hand, the chair grinding against the floor as he simultaneously pushed the envelope into his right pocket. All he had to do was to go downstairs and put the envelope in the outgoing mailbox. Therefore, striding back into the hallway next to the restroom, he approached the front door and grabbed his shoes off the floor. He leaned against the wall behind him as support to put the shoes on one at a time, and once done, he stood back up, grabbed his key and chain hanging off the coat rack in front of him, and turned towards the door, twisting the knob so the door would open, and exiting his apartment.

    Eleazar glanced down both flanks of the hall as he exited, the hall itself leading to the numerous apartment rooms on his building level. First, he glanced right toward a dead end, with a simple window and wall leading to nowhere besides the last room number on the floor. He then looked to the left, where the staircase was near the center of the building and, fortunately, close to his apartment. There appeared to be no rush or commotion outside, so getting to the mailroom would be pretty straightforward, a relief considering how cramped everything was. He never got used to the tight corridors. Yet, considering the excellent deal on the rent he had to pay for his room and any other apartment fees for other necessities, it was a discomfort he could contend with. Regardless, he briskly made his way and walked toward the metal and winding staircase, an elevator at its center cordoned off by chain and tape fencing to demonstrate that it had been out of order for an entire year. However, Eleazar was only one floor from the ground level, so he never really cared about it. So, as with any other day, he made his way to, then down, the staircase that rattled beneath his steps.

    It didn't take long for him to reach the first floor, and as he waltzed into the main foyer, only one person was visible: the front desk worker who had their feet propped up on their desk while reading a newspaper and smoking a cigarette. Eleazar chose to avoid them since he'd likely hear that rent was due in a few days, and despite having now stable finances for the month, he still didn't want that on his mind. So, he pocketed his keys into his left pocket, immediately turned right, stopped just before a hallway entrance with no door, and then encountered a large, bright blue metal box on the wall with a big handle to open it. On the box, it read outbound mail in large white letters and a further plastered notice, informing that stealing from it was a crime punishable by fine or prison time. Eleazar had previously read the label and knew the box's purpose, so he grabbed the handle and pulled it open without consideration or hesitation. After that, he reached into his right pocket and pulled the envelope out with his right hand, which he then used to set the envelope inside the opening of the mailbox. He then let the mailbox close freely by letting go of the handle, the box scraping and banging shut.

    He couldn't help but let out a sigh and chortle of relief as he took a moment to stare at the blue box. However, now, all he had to do was merely go collect his mail, then probably be responsible, and stop by the contract company office later today to see what other assignments were ready to be picked up. He puffed, reminding himself that life went on despite the good or bad. Putting his right hand into his pocket and pulling his keys back out of his left pocket with his other hand, he turned to the hallway entrance. He passed through, brushing past the austere hallway, gaudy with locked rooms and utility spaces. However, ultimately, he passed through an open doorway revealing a dimly illuminated area cordoned off by walls embedded with dozens of metal boxes labeled with digits, most being sealed shut with keyholes. Eleazar hugged the closet wall to the entrance and immediately located the P.O. box belonging to him, which he went to every morning. Extending his left hand and instinctively choosing the correct key, he positioned it into the key slot and twisted it, the lock clicking open. Consequently, the box door opened barely, and Eleazar aided it by pulling it open with his left hand that kept the key within the lock.

    The typical sight greeted him: a dark grey metal cavity with some thin pieces of mail neatly stacked on their side. He reached inside, pulling out the stack of envelopes with his left hand and then using his right to sift through what had arrived. It was essentially the usual bills, advertisement, work information, and, more happily, his official payment from Mrs. Šiljan; it was far more light and neat than the bribe within the envelope that Mr. Stanković had provided to him for taking a different perspective of the condition of the factory floor. He pocketed it instantly so as not to draw any unwarranted attention if anyone with bad intentions wandered in. However, as he resumed to look through the mail, two things caught his attention. He skimmed over the last piece of mail he had just sorted out with his right hand. Firstly, and more aggravating, was that one of the envelopes, with Dirian stamps and writing, had him believe it was from his family; however, it kept his focus as it was addressed to him by the Dirian Armed Forces. Instantly, his heart sank as his tail, which had slightly risen and swayed from the previous thought it was a letter from his parents, went limp against his hind. The sensation within his fingertips and lower arms lost feeling as he placed all the other mail back into the P.O. box with his left. Slowly, he flipped the beige envelope over and used his claws to tear the crease open, revealing the light brown letter inside. He gradually pulled it out with his left hand, his chest tense as his heart rate rose, the sensation sickening. Dropping the empty envelope to the ground, he flipped the paper open, the seal of Diria greeting him and the large, bold letters stating blatantly. "Order of Induction into Military Service of the Dirian Federation."

    Eleazar froze, all the air in his tight chest and lungs immediately leaving his body. He felt his knees buckle and then stiffen for a juncture, as all he could hear through his erect triangular ears was the radiator's humming in the corner of the mailroom's far wall, the faint buzz of the ceiling lights above him, and a loud aggravating ringing. He gagged as he tilted forward, wheezing into a quiet, desperate chuckle. He tried to compose himself, his eyes rapidly blinking as they dampened. Crunching the draft notice in his clenching left hand into a messy ball, he then used the same hand to haphazardly grab the mail he had put back into the P.O. box. Almost turning away, he snapped back, swearing to himself in his native Zarou tongue. Utilizing his right hand, he began pulling at the key, desperately trying to remove it, only realizing that he couldn't without first closing the box's door. He brashly punched it in an attempt to shut it, the sound of his knuckles hitting it echoing off the other boxes as he once again shook the key to bring it out of the keyhole, only for him to lessen the grip of his left hand accidentally, and thus dropping his mail on the ground, it spreading everywhere. The room walls began to feel like they were clamping down on him, his chuckle turning into a broken, harsh laugh as he looked at the mess below him. He looked back up at the P.O. box's keyhole, his punch of it a second ago only having caused the entire door damage and making it lose the ability to latch shut without assistance. Yet, he failed to notice it; instead, and in vain, he attempted to rip the key out, but rather, the forceful yank only tore the keyring apart by its leather keychain, the splintering aluminum of it slicing one of his right hand's fingers open as it fell. Hyperventilating, the pain of such conveyed him back to reality. He gazed at his hand, dropping the keychain and looking at the blood starting to spill from his sliced fingertip, the fur around it now sticky and flat. His laughing continued to dribble from his maw as he attempted to stem it. Instead, it turned to sniffling and crying, tears escaping his eyes as he clenched his hand closed, his nails digging into his palm, as he watched the blood drip towards the ground onto the scattered mail.

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