“One thing that always surprises me, no matter how often I see the repeated cycle, is the mortal capacity for hatred. Mortals hate a lot but generally hate nothing more than something they don’t understand. ‘The Other’ as I’ve heard it put before. If it doesn’t look like them, sound like them, act like them, or come from the general socio-economic construct as them, they fucking hate it. What’s worse is they allow that hatred to be used to manipulate them by the worst thing reality has ever created, fucking politicians. Slime-ball, scum-sucking, influence-selling, lying, cheating, double-talking, shit-swizzling, motherfucking politicians and their sycophant nut-hugging, tiny-brained, moronic followers… and Kid Rock. Seriously, in every reality out there, that guy is just the fucking worst. Fuck you, Kid Rock. Fuck you right in your pasty white, bigoted, hate-spewing piece of human garbage ass…. Erm… anyway! Compassion is a currency no longer traded among your kind, especially to those who need it most. Separate yourselves from your political parasites for a moment and look around yourselves; chances are you might just see someone that could use some of that compassion. Dickbags.”

• Kantherion Onerious, ‘Chronicles of the Ages’

Chicago, 2094

Upper Level, Allenstone Residential Tower

It was a calm night, even this high above the bustling lanes of air traffic and the streets far below. The upper level was beautiful in its way. Lights illuminate the steel and glass towers of the uppermost levels as the hover vehicles wound through the airways. In the distance, the rebuilt Aerie shined like a beacon of hope, though it was false hope, especially for one like him. For all their vaunted power and influence, dragons and knights didn’t care about people like him. There were no villains to fight, no bad guys to vanquish. At least none that people seemed willing to oppose.

The roof access had been locked, just as the maintenance door in the sublevels in the Rack below the tower had been. But Quinn had made short work of them, easily cracking their codes with an algorithm of his own making. He had always been good with math and coding. It was a talent recognized by his teachers at a young age. It was also recognized by the cops knocking on his parent’s door when he was eleven. Parents he hadn’t seen in years. Parents whose disapproving and angry words still stung and hurt his heart daily.

Would they mourn him? Probably not, he thought to himself. His father would likely just pour himself another drink while his mother would somehow find some way to spin the news to her advantage, using it to bolster her political career. It was a career supported by the conviction of the old city council and its treason years ago. His mother had quickly pounced on the opportunity to join the city’s new governmental advisory board. Unfortunately, she represented old money families from the upper level and all their stigma, intolerance, and narrow-minded views. But their money and promise to keep her in power dominated their lives. A life that had no room for someone like him, a threat to the money and influence their family enjoyed.

There were many things his mother’s fear-laden constitutes hated. Non-humans being chief among them, but only slightly more than ‘The Gays’ and ‘The Lesbos’ and, worst of all in their views, ‘Trans freaks.’ So he had fled, running from the disapproving looks and hate-filled rhetoric his mother spewed. Withdrew from the ‘Why can’t you be normal’ and ‘It’s just in your head’ or his favorite ‘You’re just wanting attention.’ The streets had been no less unkind over the years, with cold alleys and violence seeming to be his only fate. Even those that had shown him kindness at one point only sought to use him. A roof and a rare meal were accompanied by a crippling drug addiction. The drugs had made it easier to allow himself to be used by strangers for their gratification, whatever form that gratification came in. Sex, violence, sex with violence, and a myriad of other depravities he had allowed himself to be subjected to. After all, wasn’t that all that people like him were good for? Just like his mother had always said.

The night was warm, a typical Chicago summer evening. It had been years since he had seen the open sky, and even now, amid everything, he marveled at its beauty. He lifted one hand, wiped away the tears and running mascara that streaked down his cheeks, and brushed aside stray locks of dark, messy hair in front of his face. He took a deep breath, trying to steady himself as he took another step toward the side of the roof and the half wall surrounding it as a safety measure. 

Quinn was small; he had always been small, even before the drugs had left him scrawny, underweight, and malnourished. His cheeks were sunk beneath high cheekbones, which had once been a source of pride for his mother. Back when she had paraded him about in the pageants and contests so important to her. Before those that would leer and stare, fantasizing about all the little girls prancing before them done up like showgirls and strippers. He remembered watching a holo vid once, a movie about a man dressing up as an older woman to see his kids and how his mother had shouted about ‘drag being evil’ before shutting it off and then ushering him out the door to be paraded before pedophiles in another ‘beauty pageant.’

When he had told his mother about one of the judges and their groping, she had called him a liar and slapped him so hard his lip bled. Nothing could shake his mother’s view of the world, and there was no room for compromise, learning, or growth. You either fit or didn’t; if you didn’t, you were a target for her wrath. Quinn was always told he was a pretty girl when he was young, and his mother had been so proud. But that pride quickly turned to hatred when Quinn finally spoke about how he felt, about what he knew to be true in his soul.

He had fought for years to be accepted. He had fought to be heard and seen; while there had been a few moments of hope and happiness, they were fleeting. Finally, he had become tired of fighting, tired of struggling, tired of waiting for people to understand. Things had only become worse in the past few years. People like him were being used to stir the one thing politicians could always rely upon, hate. He was different; he knew this and accepted this. But many could never understand what he felt, what he struggled through, and they would never see him as he saw himself. They would call him a pervert, a predator, a deviant. And that was something politicians like his mother could use… the hate of the other. He had finally accepted his fate, and he was so very, very tired. Another step, and he was looking over the half wall down at the dizzying height of the tower.

He heard a sound from behind him, a sound not unlike a single beat of giant wings. At first, he thought it was just the wind, but the hair on the back of his neck stood up, and he felt as if he were no longer alone atop the roof. He glanced over one thin shoulder and spotted a man with short silver-gray hair and a well-trimmed beard. Brilliant, bright blue eyes met Quinn’s gaze, and the man tucked his hands into the pockets of a costly pair of black suit pants matched by the shirt, vest, and jacket he wore, all topped off with a red tie.

“Hell of a view, huh?” the man asked as he strolled over to casually stand near Quinn, looking out over the city.

“I guess,” Quinn replied, his voice as shaky as his hands were.

“Well, better than it was a few years ago anyway,” the man said with a shrug. “Dragons fighting to the death does tend to leave a mess.”

“Yeah,” Quinn replied quietly.

“So,” the man said, half sitting on the little wall. “Something tells me you’re not here to admire the view. Are you Quinn?”

“How do you know my name?” Quinn asked, regarding the man suspiciously.

“One of the many perks of the job,” the man said with a smirk. 

“What job?” Quinn replied.

“It’s kinda hard to explain,” the man answered. “That’s not important right now. What’s important is why we’re here.” 

“I just wanted to be alone,” Quinn retorted. 

“No, you didn’t,” the man shook his head.

Quinn looked the man over again, still unclear on how the mysterious stranger knew his name, though his presence on the roof was pretty easy to guess. Quinn felt his shoulders slump a little as his ability to hold back the tears he had been fighting faded. He felt the warm streaks of tears running down his cheeks, causing the lights of the upper levels to become fuzzy and out of focus. 

“There you go, let it out,” the silver-haired man said.

“I’m not hurting anyone,” Quinn whispered before he turned and sank to sit with his back against the half-wall.

“I know,” the stranger replied. “Unfortunately, a lot of mortals fear what they don’t understand or what they see as being different.”

“I don’t understand why they can’t just leave me alone,” Quinn said quietly.

“Some will, others won’t. Worst, though, are the political types that could actually give a shit less but use it to stir up their base,” the man said, shaking his head.

“It’s just too much.”

“I imagine it certainly can feel that way some days,” the silver-haired stranger agreed. “And you’re not in the healthiest of situations either.”

“You think?” Quinn quipped. 

“Well, it doesn’t matter what I think. It matters what you’re experiencing,” the man replied. 

“I wish it were that easy,” Quinn retorted.

“It is,” his companion said. 

“Do you think this is easy?” Quinn asked. 

“You misunderstand,” the man reassured him. “Every mortal has their own experience with life. Each is as valid as the next…. Mostly.”

“Mostly?”

“Well, there are some exceptions.”

“Like what?” Quinn asked, calming himself a little.

“Well, you have your standards sub-par assholes like murderers, violent criminals… politicians.  Then some people try to validate their pathetic existence by attacking others,” the man explained.

“So how does any of that make this easy?” Quinn asked.

“Because all you can do is have your experience,” the stranger replied. “Your life and what you make of it is for you, and you alone to choose.”

“They won’t let me,” Quinn said quietly.

“Fuck them,” the silver-haired stranger said firmly. As Quinn looked up, the man flashed a broad smile. “They don’t get to speak for you.”

“Tell them that,” Quinn replied.

“I have been,” the man said with a nod. “And others are starting to speak up more and more every day. Look, I can never truly understand what you’re going through or how you feel. But what I can do is do my best to help you through it and… yanno have Bernard over there jack up anyone that tries to hurt you again,” the man explained, nodding toward a huge jotunn with a bald head, an eye patch, and a thick dark haired beard. 

“Where’d he come from?” Quinn asked, suddenly feeling a bit nervous.

“Hey, nothing to worry about. He moves surprisingly quiet for a wall with feet,” the man reassured him.

“Why would you want to help me? Why do you care?” Quinn said, looking back at the man. 

“Because someone should,” the stranger replied with a shrug.

“Why?” Quinn asked, suspicious of the man once again.

“You mortals aren’t meant to go through things like this without family. So just think of me as yanno, daddy or something,” the man explained.

“What?” Quinn asked, confused.

“That came out wrong. But you catch my drift,” his companion replied.

“I’m honestly not sure if I do,” Quinn said slowly. 

“I get that a lot,” the stranger said with a smirk.

“So now what?” Quinn asked.

“Now, you go with my large, bald friend over there, and he’ll help get you settled in,” the silver-haired fellow said

“No, I mean, why are you doing this?” Quinn clarified.

.

“Because the world is dark enough without losing your light, too,” the man explained. Seeing tears welling up in Quinn’s eyes, the man grinned, “I’m no angel, Quinn. But it’s time for me to stop waiting on the world to change. Maybe it’s time I help with the change I want to see. So…. see you in the morning?” Seeing Quinn nod slightly, the man’s smile widened. “Excellent! I’ll have the coffee on!” He began walking toward the roof access door in the distance.

“Wait!” Quinn called out, turning toward the man. “I don’t even know your name.”

“Bernard, a card, please,” the man said as he passed the large troll and patted his powerful arm.

The jotunn nodded and walked toward Quinn as the silver-haired man disappeared into the roof accessway. Quinn looked up as the troll approached and held out a business card. Quinn cautiously took the card and looked at it, his eyes widening a bit in confusion as he read the card’s text. He looked up at the troll and blinked a few times.

“Thank you, Bernard,” he said quietly.

“It’s actually Byrnjar,” the jotunn said in a deep, friendly voice.

“Gesundheit!” came the silver-haired man’s voice from the roof’s open door.

*** We here at Fat Viking Studios stand with our LGBTQ+ friends and family. If you or someone you know is experiencing thoughts of self-harm or a crisis situation, please call the national Suicide and Crisis helpline at 988 from your cell phone. Please be safe and remember that you are not alone.***