A SEVEN YEAR PLAN

Echo stared through the guest-room window. His uncle's aviary was deadly quiet.

Benjamin's estate had been spared by the ravage of the fire, but not by the tides of liberation that had surged over the Domain of the Gods. Echo's lips twitched, a small and tired smile etching itself on his face as he thought of all the slaves who'd escaped (over half of them!), before it bled back into a sad expression. One day... If the slave-collars' main control system had been destroyed just one day sooner then Shizo...

He killed the thought with a clench of his jaw. It was futile to dwindle on what-ifs. He'd wasted months of his life on it after his mother's death—What if he'd ran from her? What if he'd called for help?—and now his mind tried once again to stray toward such punishing thoughts. What if he'd stolen the remote control to Shizo's collar? What if he'd been strong or smart or brave enough to destroy the system's main-frame?

It didn't matter, because he hadn't. But one man did. (A fishman according to his nurses' hushed gossip). One lone fishman who'd proven not four days ago that Celestial Dragons weren't as untouchable as they thought. Echo's heartbeat sped at the reminder, his bruised throat and blood-shot eyes a vivid testimony of his mortality.

A timid knock snapped him out of his musings, and with a pained wince, he craned his braced neck toward the guest-room's cherry-red entry.

"Come in," he rasped, amber eyes widening when a mousy slave wheeled his father in.

Echo's throat bobbed against the soft confine of his supportive brace, eyes watering at the poor sight his once regal father made. Albrecht Constantin, demoted head of the Albrecht family, looked as pale as Red Line's early morning fog.

The slave wheeled him up to Echo's bedside before she fled.

"Father..."

Echo's eyes roaming over his sire's weakened form. Purple pockets hung under dull orbs, chapped lips pressed into a wobbly line half the size of the angry cuts that ran the length of his collarbones. The stitched wounds hinted at a wider tableau, the more gruesome parts of which were thankfully hidden under thick white robes.

"You were right," Echo whispered at last. And he was. On some parts at least... A long time ago, his mother had convinced him that the world could be changed with kindness, but as life had so cruelly taught him, the kind were trampled, their goodness eradicated by insanity or death. No, his father had been right to call him out on his plans, because Echo wouldn't survive a day outside these walls. (And most certainly not armed with hope and smiles alone.)

"I want to train in combat," he said, before he took a deep fortifying breath. "And learn how to use a firearm." The mere image of his index pressing a trigger sent his stomach rolling. But he'd thought about this long and hard during his forced bed-rest, had had little else to occupy his mind with, and eventually accepted that idealism only had its place in his mother's fairy-tales. Violence was the world's main currency, and the sooner he accepted this, the higher his chances of survival would be.

"Echo…"

"But I won't train on living targets. Ever," he said with a dark glare.

"It's okay," his father said in a soothing voice, warm palm pressing down, tentative, on the hand Echo'd unconsciously clenched around his blanket. "You're alright, you're alive... The guard arrived on time, son. There's no need for you to put your body through such strain..."

"No need?" he asked, incredulous. "I was dying!" he exclaimed, only to wince at his throat's raw protest.

"I know, Echo. Trust me, I know." His father's eyes glazing over. "That rotten low-life spent the entire time gloating in my head..."

Oh... Echo's troubled gaze trailed down to his lap, but, not knowing what to make of his father's heavy confession, he pressed on. "What if that guard didn't come? I don't want to depend on others... I need to get strong."

His father hefted one of his signature sighs before a sad smile soothed his strained features. "There's no stopping you, is there?" Frail fingers tugged a stray brown strand behind Echo's ear, the gesture a distraction from his hushed words, "You're just too much like your mother."

Echo blinked, wonder drawing on his face at his father's quiet admission, but before he could comment on this rare moment of shared affection, his father nodded in resigned assent.

"We'll talk to your uncle, see if he can spare an agent to mentor you."

*

When he first heard of his nephew's whimsical request, Benjamin's deep belly-laughter flooded the mansion, and, not knowing just how much it would come back to haunt him, he readily accepted. It would be entertaining for one, and might finally beat some sense into the boy.

He was certain Echo'd crumble on his first run, and when he didn't, he felt positive his nephew would give up after his first hand-combat lesson turned his brown skin into an ugly mix of red and purple. But to Benjamin's dismay—to his and what little was left of the Albrecht family's utter disgrace!—the brat kept up with this farce until lean muscles developed on his once frail body. As though he were a-... he-... as though he were a mere labor slave!

Oh, but the offense didn't stop there, because more days than not, grease matted his linen shirts and loose cargo pants from whatever mad project he was carrying out behind bolted (bolted!) doors. And the worse part, the absolute scandal, was that his once starry-eyed nephew (the one who would trail behind him and hung at his every words whenever Benjamin gracefully took him on a tour of his exotic creatures collection) suddenly favored boring botanic and nautical manuscripts over his company!

And Constantin... Not only did a slave turn his brother into a living dart-board, but it appeared he'd also suffered a bloody lobotomy! Did Constantin no longer care that his son, the sole heir to the Albrecht line (something Benjamin and his horridly unappealing wife were actively working to correct, mind you), was turning into a slave-loving hipster? Apparently not, for all he did was shrug with an indulgent smile whenever Benjamin voiced his escalating concern.

Then, seven years later, what Benjamin had been dreading in nerve-wracking solitude inevitably happened: the ungrateful mongrel disappeared. No explanation, no letter. It was just like "pouf" and he was gone... Well, no. Actually, it was more like "boom!" and he was gone, right after he'd left a considerable dent in Benjamin's aviary.