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Let that Be your Last Battlefield
‘Shht!… Hush!… Don’t laugh so loud or we’re bust!’ Peter exclaimed. He looked around in self-consciousness, but the street was deserted, and all the grim buildings round had their shutters locked. No sign of life, except for that half-naked red-hair knockout clinging to him like a limpet to its rock.
‘You so prim… Where’s… your gaff?’ she stammered. He winced at her foul breath every time she spoke.
‘Just after the corner’, he answered and broke free from the weak lock of her arms. ‘Come on!’
He towed her along the street round the corner into the building. The lift was useless, of course, so he had to carry her up to the third floor, despite her obsession to kiss him at every single step.
‘Wow!’ she exclaimed as they stepped in. The flat was bog-standard, though. One of the many the government allocated to young students living on their own. A single room with a private recess for the bathroom. A basic hob. A desk. A chair. A bed, on to which she lumbered and flopped, facing him.
‘Want a last drink?’ he said half-jokingly.
She made no answer but endeavoured to get rid of the few pieces of fabric that were still sticking to her. When she was done she rose, spun once, as if to expose every single freckle of her perfect body to his eyes, then tucked herself in under the duvet. ‘You coming, dishy wishy?’ she said, with a sultry pout.
She hadn’t to beg twice.
***
The first thing he became conscious of was the pain inside his head. A blunt, regular pounding as if a hammer beat his skull. He cracked his eyes open but a flow of bright light pounced at them so he closed them back right away.
Yet.
What was it that he’d just seen?
Hazy memories trickled back. Eyes still closed, he groped round the bed. It was empty. A sweet fragrance of freshly brewed coffee crept inside his nostrils. He rolled on his side and cautiously reopened his eyes.
Light poured from the open window. She was sitting at the table, wearing one of his T-shirts, sipping from a mug. Gazing at him with gorgeous, intent green eyes.
On the table he saw two things. One that it could not identify from the distance. The other posed no such problem: it was an ordinary shotgun, the kind that was given to every citizen when they turned 18. His own, probably.
She smiled. ‘Did you sleep well?’ she said.
‘Did we actually sleep?’ he painfully drawled. ‘Ouch, my head aches…’
‘Want a hair of the dog?’ she asked.
‘Naaaaahhh!’ The very idea of alcohol made him sick. He pushed the duvet aside and sat up. ‘What’s the gun for?’
‘Bad news’, she replied.
‘What!?’ he exclaimed. He bolted upright, but with a nimble movement of her free hand she grabbed the weapon and trained it at him.
‘Sit back down’, she said.
He froze for a brief instant before complying. She put the mug on to the table, then seized the other object and waved it at him.
‘Recognise this?’ she asked.
Peter couldn’t really see, or even think, clearly. ‘Not really’, he replied. Then all of a sudden he had an epiphany. It was a zero-day pregnancy test. Negative.
The realisation should’ve been showing on his face. ‘Coming back to your senses, are you?’ she giggled.
He shook his hands wildly. ‘Can’t be. Must be a mistake. Don’t—’
‘Honey,’ she cut in, ‘do you know many times we fucked last night?’
‘…’
‘Six times. Six times you came in me. I was so full of you it kept dripping from my pussy when I got up. I’m sorry,’ she concluded, ‘you’re a fucking awesome lay, but this is no mistake. Just the final proof.’
‘The what?’
‘We’ve sussed you’re crippled for a long time. DNA tests, you know. We detected several mutations…’
‘Wait what? You’re—’
She opened her hand, letting go of the test, to show the little green crystal embedded in the palm. A chill ran down Peter’s spine.
‘You know we can’t afford for any of your kind, but I hate to have to be the one to do it’, she said. ‘In better times I’d—’
‘Please,’ Peter interrupted. ‘don’t serve me your bullshit now. Just make it quick.’
‘I’m so really sorry,’ she said again, and she pulled the trigger.
‘You so prim… Where’s… your gaff?’ she stammered. He winced at her foul breath every time she spoke.
‘Just after the corner’, he answered and broke free from the weak lock of her arms. ‘Come on!’
He towed her along the street round the corner into the building. The lift was useless, of course, so he had to carry her up to the third floor, despite her obsession to kiss him at every single step.
‘Wow!’ she exclaimed as they stepped in. The flat was bog-standard, though. One of the many the government allocated to young students living on their own. A single room with a private recess for the bathroom. A basic hob. A desk. A chair. A bed, on to which she lumbered and flopped, facing him.
‘Want a last drink?’ he said half-jokingly.
She made no answer but endeavoured to get rid of the few pieces of fabric that were still sticking to her. When she was done she rose, spun once, as if to expose every single freckle of her perfect body to his eyes, then tucked herself in under the duvet. ‘You coming, dishy wishy?’ she said, with a sultry pout.
She hadn’t to beg twice.
***
The first thing he became conscious of was the pain inside his head. A blunt, regular pounding as if a hammer beat his skull. He cracked his eyes open but a flow of bright light pounced at them so he closed them back right away.
Yet.
What was it that he’d just seen?
Hazy memories trickled back. Eyes still closed, he groped round the bed. It was empty. A sweet fragrance of freshly brewed coffee crept inside his nostrils. He rolled on his side and cautiously reopened his eyes.
Light poured from the open window. She was sitting at the table, wearing one of his T-shirts, sipping from a mug. Gazing at him with gorgeous, intent green eyes.
On the table he saw two things. One that it could not identify from the distance. The other posed no such problem: it was an ordinary shotgun, the kind that was given to every citizen when they turned 18. His own, probably.
She smiled. ‘Did you sleep well?’ she said.
‘Did we actually sleep?’ he painfully drawled. ‘Ouch, my head aches…’
‘Want a hair of the dog?’ she asked.
‘Naaaaahhh!’ The very idea of alcohol made him sick. He pushed the duvet aside and sat up. ‘What’s the gun for?’
‘Bad news’, she replied.
‘What!?’ he exclaimed. He bolted upright, but with a nimble movement of her free hand she grabbed the weapon and trained it at him.
‘Sit back down’, she said.
He froze for a brief instant before complying. She put the mug on to the table, then seized the other object and waved it at him.
‘Recognise this?’ she asked.
Peter couldn’t really see, or even think, clearly. ‘Not really’, he replied. Then all of a sudden he had an epiphany. It was a zero-day pregnancy test. Negative.
The realisation should’ve been showing on his face. ‘Coming back to your senses, are you?’ she giggled.
He shook his hands wildly. ‘Can’t be. Must be a mistake. Don’t—’
‘Honey,’ she cut in, ‘do you know many times we fucked last night?’
‘…’
‘Six times. Six times you came in me. I was so full of you it kept dripping from my pussy when I got up. I’m sorry,’ she concluded, ‘you’re a fucking awesome lay, but this is no mistake. Just the final proof.’
‘The what?’
‘We’ve sussed you’re crippled for a long time. DNA tests, you know. We detected several mutations…’
‘Wait what? You’re—’
She opened her hand, letting go of the test, to show the little green crystal embedded in the palm. A chill ran down Peter’s spine.
‘You know we can’t afford for any of your kind, but I hate to have to be the one to do it’, she said. ‘In better times I’d—’
‘Please,’ Peter interrupted. ‘don’t serve me your bullshit now. Just make it quick.’
‘I’m so really sorry,’ she said again, and she pulled the trigger.
I'm guessing this is one of those scenarios where there are very few males left, so ones that can't help propagate the species are considered useless. In that case, though, it's not like leaving him alive would hurt anyone, since the description of the city certainly doesn't make it seem like resources are critically limited and can't be spared on anyone who can't be part of the solution. So maybe the opposite, where women are limited and need a diverse gene pool, so those who can't provide one are a burden? Her line about "can't afford" is the only thing that provides any context on why he has to die, but it's vague enough that I don't get the bigger picture. And as part of that, I don't know who to root for. It might be I'd agree he needed to go. There's some sympathy in it being something he can't help, though for all I know, he's a terrible person. My best guess is it's just a piece against eugenics or some such. I'd toyed with the idea she was some sort of alien race trying to root out the last few humans still living hidden among her people, but her comment about DNA test wouldn't jive with that, since they'd already have the evidence they needed. This is on the verge of working.
On the mechanical side, there are a few editing misses and odd word choices, but nothing too serious.
On the mechanical side, there are a few editing misses and odd word choices, but nothing too serious.