“In the midst of chaos, there is also opportunity.”— Sun Tzu

  ------

  You know, whoever invented brass knuckles was a real son of a bitch, and I love him for it.

  There's nothing like that crunch to really get your jimmies jimmied, just *whack* smash. Fucking done. Just, done.

  But whoever invented tasers, well I'd like to introduce them to a high velocity brick. One second you're pounding some jack-wagon into a pool table and the next, you're riding the lightning into lala land. What a bitch.

  How's a guy gonna get his knuckles their workout when some shitwad has to go and ruin it with fifty thousands volts up your ass?

  Anyway, there's me, drooling into the back seat of a cop car like I'm a toddler with a loose tooth. Whatever, I'll remember that guy.

  It's the usual shit, "bla bla bla, right to remain silent, bla bla." I told him he could Miranda these rights. I'd have grabbed my dick, but the bitch zip tied me to the cage in his car.

  Probably has something to do with me trying to kick out his back window. Hey man, don't judge my art. They even took my knuckles. Fuckers.

  At the station now, in a room by myself, chained to the table. I guess I "match the description of a guy who robbed a booze stand". Well isn't that weird? That was a while ago and I dyed my hair. Probably should have shaved my beard or something. Oh well, it's just prison. Free food is free food.

  I don't remember calling a lawyer, but there's one here. He's not like any of the other public defenders I've ever dealt with. Dude's jacked, must not have many cases with all the time in the gym. I guess I should pay attention to what he's saying. Why is he here this late? What kind of lawyer shows up at three in the morning?

  "Listen, Todd, your name is Todd, right?" without waiting for an answer, he continued, "You seem to have landed yourself in a world of trouble. Broke a few pool cues over some people's heads... very nice. You seem to have lost your brass knuckles though, pity."

  Todd looked up at the large man across from him.

  "What kind of lawyer are you? 'very nice'?"

  With a slow smile that grew into a maniacal grin, the hulking man rose to his full height. His form seemed to expand, his shirt burst into flame as a set of chains wrapped around his torso began to glow cherry red with heat. The smoldering cloth fell, stinking, to the floor as the too wide grin revealed sharpened teeth and the intense eyes leaked black smoke. His well muscled arms writhed with tattoos depicting scenes of violence and brutality.

  With a voice as cruel as iron, the 'man' loomed over Todd and spoke directly into his soul, "I am ARES, dealer in death, herald of chaos, god of war. And you are mine!"

  Ares reached down and hauled Todd bodily across the table, snapping the chains that held him. His huge hand wrapped around Todd's face, palming his whole head. Todd shook as power flooded into him, his feet flailed and he grabbed at Ares' arms ineffectually. Ares turned and threw him through the door, smashing it from it's hinges and crashing into the far wall.

  Todd sprung to his feet, his eyes ablaze with rage. Ares pointed down the hall and said one word.

  "Go."

  -----

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  It is one of those blustery days that rouse last year's leaves from their hiding places and send them skittering through the streets in tiny, whirling dervishes. Birds huddle in sheltered nooks and cling to wires like diminutive notes penned upon a wind-tossed folio. A wind blown woman fights with her choice of attire as the gale laughingly steals her curses and sends them dancing with the fleeing leaves. Claire ducks into an alleyway to avoid a particularly strong gust, her hand going of its own accord to the scarf she had hastily wrapped around her wild curls.

  There is something to be said for being out and about on a day such as this, all very exciting and enlivening. But stray feathers of the wild wind's will do their best to disavow her of any semblance of dignity. Skirts, she muses, are to be avoided on such days.

  Such thoughts do not avail themselves to adventure. And so Claire turns to survey her choice of temporary shelter. To her surprise — almost as if tucked there by magic — a tiny shop peeks out from around a bend in the wall. The sign, many years divorced from any paint, perhaps once read: Time’s Forgotten Treasures.

  The door closed solidly behind her as the brass bell voiced her entrance. At once, the exuberance of the wind was replaced by a reverent pregnant silence — the sort of silence that knows things.

  Claire pushed away from the door and took in the shop with a soft gasp. The smell of memories wrapped around her like a weighted blanket: the musty purple scent of old books, mingled with tobacco and something almost — but not quite — cinnamon. Why cinnamon, she had no idea.

  She unwound the scarf from her hair, folding it absently as she stepped deeper into this world of stories. She hardly knew where to start. But what first caught her eye was a cluttered shelf of figurines — strange little sculptures, each odder than the last. One was a farmer, though he held not a tool of the field, but a spear. Another a falconer, but with a butterfly on her outstretched arm. Or a horseman, resplendent in armor with soaring wings unfurled behind him, his lance a beacon.

  Claire couldn't contain her grin as her eyes moved on to a table with a partially collapsed tower of blocks, pieces strewn about as if the player had grown frustrated.

  She turned to approach the table, but was distracted by a distant voice calling from somewhere deep in the stacks: "Coming!"

  Then, several things happened at once: a sudden shift in air pressure, a waft of that exotic spice, and the appearance of a small, bent figure stepping out from what appeared to be a wardrobe.

  At Claire's startled expression, the little man giggled and gestured over his shoulder.

  "Fun little trick, that, isn’t it?" he said, his sparkling eyes bright with mischief. "I put that old thing there ages ago — the back’s missing, you see, so I can’t very well sell it. But it does make for a lovely joke!"

  Claire sputtered, unsure whether to laugh or turn back to the door.

  The man pressed on cheerfully.

  "Don’t fret — my name’s not Tumnus. Call me Ansel. And I shall endeavor to guide you to your newest trinket, or story, or—well—anything, really!"

  The little man bowed and twirled the point of his beard before turning to a glass curio case filled with jewelry and brightly colored baubles. "This way miss..." he paused, expectant.

  Claire almost returned the bow, her face a study in surprised yet delighted confusion.

  "Um, Claire. This place is just so, so, wonderful!" she gushed, all at once.

  With another giggle, something Claire was finding to be more and more endearing, Ansel called back over his shoulder, "Thank you, Um Claire!"

  Claire decided to ignore Ansel's apparent confusion as she followed him further into the shop. He had stopped in front of a dimly lit case with rows of tobacco pipes on one shelf, and ornate pocket watches on another.

  The twinkle in his eye told her that he knew very well what she was thinking.

  "What are you looking for Claire?"

  -------

  The consistent hum and chatter of a coffee shop is said to be particularly good for the sort of thought required by intellectual pursuits. Or so we've been told.

  Either way, it's the only place for a decent latte. One may attempt to construct a simulacrum at home, but the result is lackluster at best. Wandering thoughts are interrupted by the siren call of: "Cinnamon latte for Myron!"

  A cinnamon latte is a forgivable reason to divert one's focus.

  However, the barista — a chipper young woman with jet-black hair and bright eyes — petitions further diversion with a suitably exuberant, yet intolerably obsequious comment: "Oh! You're Professor Aldwitch!"

  The longsuffering, yet measured reply came quickly: "Yes, however, it is Aldwych. Do I know you? Miss..."

  The young lady, without seeming to notice the chill tone, pressed on: "Yes! You're my professor for Applied Mythodynamics and Ritual Geometry!"

  She took his silence for acquiescence and continued without a beat.

  "What even does that mean? I mean, I signed up because I like geometry — at least when it comes to..."

  The professor's cough cut her off, and she handed him his cup with a slightly abashed look.

  When the professor took his cup and began to make his way to his favorite booth, the excited girl called after him, "I'm looking forward to class!" Then clapped her hand to her mouth in embarrassment for disturbing the ambience.

  Myron didn't even notice.

  -----

  Somewhere, on the distant, dusty surface of Janus, Saturn’s tenth moon—“Moon X.”

  Far from the tumults of humanity, caught between the untold beauty of Saturn and the vast reaching of space.

  A singular moment began and ended without fanfare.

  Plumage as brilliant as daybreak, comb standing proud, neck outstretched, wings beating with vigor—A voice prepared to scream the start of a new day. Utterly unaware of his portended predicament… or his imminent demise.

  Without time for a breath—without so much as a crow—our brave rooster blinked back into obscurity, gone before the cold, or the vacuum of space, had cause to touch his tiny mind.