The last song of the ancestors

Juta, the Head of the Fourth Estate's Drug Trafficking Division, put on his best suit to attend the extraordinary meeting of the militia's Cupola. The meeting, organized by the faction's treasurer, came in handy. He would kill four birds with one stone. She had arranged everything with the hitman.

The militiaman would introduce him as his new bodyguard. Pretending to go to the bathroom, the man would silence his companions forever. After the massacre, he would call Ata. It would weaken his nerves. Everything for Juta had been calculated to the extreme. Sometimes he was called passive, when he made up his mind, he was labeled impulsive.

None of these accusations deterred him from his goals. He considered Ata a stone in his shoe. Someone who should be dead. The guy had sparked a war with the Central Command because of Chekandino, a wild animal wearing human skin.

Juta got into the aeromobile, he hated ground traffic. It was strange to see a hired killer as his chauffeur. He parked at the heliport where the Cupola was based. He had been late on purpose. He took the elevator down with the fake bodyguard and went to the meeting room in the penthouse.

"I thought fear wouldn't let you come, Juta."

"I'm in the mood, but he's not here."

She's such a bitch…

"Every time I talk to you, Lovelie, it makes me want to shit."

"Who's the little shadow there?"

"He's my new bodyguard. Don't worry, he won't bite. Unless you ask him to."

The militiaman left the room and headed for the penthouse bathroom. He crossed the corridor. Before he reached the bathroom, he heard terrible gunfire. He ran and locked himself in. The exchange of fire didn't take long. He opened the door with a smile from ear to ear. He went to the sink, turned on the water. He splashed some on his face. He ruffled his jacket.

He made his most desperate face. He called Ata. He left the information hanging. He didn't detail anything. He just said that his companions had been ambushed. In that climate of war and uncertainty, no one would realize that it had been a betrayal. Even if they did, it would be too late and he would already be the boss of the Burned Circuit Complex.

He returned to the room with his heart pounding in his chest. He opened the door to the meeting room. Lovelie and the other three were dead. They had drawn their weapons, unloaded their magazines, none of them had hit their target. However, the militiamen didn't have a single bullet mark on their bodies.

"It can't be, they're just passed out!"

Juta went over to the bodies. He took a handkerchief out of his jacket pocket. He took a closer look at the bodies. They were no longer breathing, nor did they have a pulse. Their eyes were as glassy as those of a fish in the supermarket gondola. There was a small circular mark on the chest of each of them. A purple bruise, but no apparent puncture or laceration.

He looked around the table. He noticed four round silver objects. He squatted down on the floor. He picked up one of the shiny objects. He turned it over in his hand.

"A coin… he didn't fire a single shot at the targets so as not to arouse suspicion, courteous of him. But how the hell did he kill these people for four pieces of silver?"

⸎

Teams from Ilu Nla's NeTV channels and international agencies have set up at the foot of Chrome Hill. Since the beginning of the clashes at dawn, no military force from the metropolis has been sent to break up the war between the criminal factions. The teams, unable to climb the hill, sent in drones. The drones were shot down in mid-air.

The only way to follow the conflict from the inside was to watch each group's broadcasts. It was a form of propaganda for their power. The scenes of the militia helicopter bombing civilian and unarmed targets stirred up public opinion. Several posts circulated throughout the metaverse and cyberspace.

The international community was hungry for information. Multilateral bodies issued notes of repudiation of what was happening and demanded firm action from Ilu Nla's interim presidency. Not that people cared about the victims, they cared about business.

The industrial titans and dinosaurs of the financial market were in an uproar. Ilu Nla was the current mecca of the cyber industry. The new workshop of the world that had overtaken China as a geo-economic force and Russia as a military power. The stock market had been in a loop since the morning.

The reporting team from Ilu Nla's state-owned NeTV prepared for a live entrance. The reporter, of medium height, dark skinned and wearing a dark brown suit with shoulder pads, positioned himself. He smoothed his frizzy hair with his hand. He took one last look at the note on his slim smartphone and looked at the camera-drone in front of him.

The team director, a short, sullen-looking woman, counted on her fingertips. The camera light flashed, it was on.

"Good morning to all our followers from Ilu Nla's state-owned NeTV. This is Kampibe from the Morning News, and I'm three hundred meters from the entrance to Chrome Hill. Since sunrise the Central Command of Chrome Hill and the Fourth Estate of the Burned Circuit Complex slums have been clashing. We contacted the Ministry of Justice and the military about what the intervention would be at this time. The government bodies responded with a note repudiating the sad events of this morning and are in a crisis cabinet to discuss the issue. They defined the clashes as an affront to public order in Ilu Nla and unprecedented terrorist acts in the country's history. The death toll is incalculable at the moment. To detail for our followers on our social networks in the metaverse, or on our official channels in cyberspace, it all boils down to a gang war for control of territory. The boss of Chrome Hill, Kinyua, has challenged the power of a militiaman called Ata, a major arms dealer who receives support from foreign powers to destabilize Ilu Nla. We'll be back with more information throughout the day. Keep following us, leave a like, share and become a follower of our channels. Now it's up to you in the studio."

Reporter Kampibe went to the table that the team had set up. He ate a sandwich; he had left home in a hurry without eating breakfast. He nibbled on it. He felt enormous pleasure. He looked around. He saw the other international correspondents hard at work. They were really dedicated to sending the message to the rest of the world.

He turned his eyes to the huge walls that separated the metropolis from its marginalized counterpart. Even before the coup d'état, when there was a king and a Circle of Sages made up of mediums, there had never been a bridge. He stopped chewing his sandwich, he felt like he was going to choke. After the bad feeling passed, he finished eating.

He sat down on a bench. He sipped a coffee to help the sandwich go down. The team director distributes notes sent by the interim president. Kampibe read it with disbelief. He would only say what the government wanted to say. The reporter felt like shouting live about the government's passivity, its reluctance.

If he did that, he would be fired, denied a job at any other news agency, and suffer lifelong political persecution. His wife would divorce him and demand alimony that he would never be able to pay. His children would suffer parental alienation and hate him for no reason. The professional discarded the paper body. It was as disposable as that glass. He returned to his position, rehearsed a few entrances, and was told: on live.