A Soviet's Struggle

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The stitches cut into his face burned with each blink, each sniffle of the nose, each lick of his lips. His ears under the hide listened to the rumbling engine of the stolen motorcycle he sat on. His crusted, bloodied paws grasped the handles as he took back roads and scenic routes to his home, the Keilerkopf human reservation.

The German countryside was nothing short of gorgeous. Rolling hills, vast trees, rivers and lakes; throughout the scenic routes, the beauty of nature really shined and helped Victor keep calm as his hands shook and his breath unsteady. As he drove, his mind relived each memory, every single series of events that led him to this point; the tragedy, the guilt, and the pain manifested within the deepest roots of his mind. Even now, 335 kilometres away, Schröder's hell bit at him; the stink of the cells, the sounds of razors, saws, groans, screams, and even, Mariya's final words to him.

"Not if you kill them first."

Flashes of guards entered his mind, reliving the moments as he watched the life leave their eyes behind their sewn masks. The two who guarded the entry and exit point questioned his dismissal; they approached him. He waited until they got close enough to him to be within arm's reach; and then he struck. He was far from a fighter, struggling deeply with the dispatch of the second guard as he got tackled to the floor after stabbing the first.

Victor looked to his bloodied sewn paws as he drove down the unmarked road, furrowing his brow in disgust as he recalled getting the upper hand over the second guard and using his newfound leverage to grasp his neck, crushing his windpipe and repeatedly slamming his skull to the concrete floor until he went limp. How he scavenged the two for keys, how he left. As he listened to the rumbling of the engine, he couldn't help but feel his disgust and guilt ever deeper. These hands were made to help animalloids and people, alike. He was a healer, a doctor, one who made a swear to uphold the Hippocratic Oath; and he murdered two men in cold, barbaric blood. He aided Schröder in his crusade against the animalloid race, albeit, against his will. He left Mariya to die.

He was no doctor. He was a monster.

How would his wife and children, who thought him missing, react to him now? How would they treat him?

Victor shook his head and purged the thoughts from his mind.

No, they would be ecstatic to see him returned! The children would yell and scream "dad" as he walked to them in triumph, willing to settle back into his old family life. His wife would hold and caress him before instructing him to bathe. She would cry, stroking his cheek as she stared at him with her love-filled eyes he was so fond of. He would return to normalcy; and he had Mariya to thank for that.

With the city skyline of Munich in the distance, Victor knew he was getting close. He merged onto a marked road, keeping his distance from passing cars and possible eyes. He went just under the speed limit, keen on keeping himself as auspicious as possible in the eyes of Animalloid law.

After all, his escape from the reservation was illegal in the eyes of E.U. law, no matter how nice his reservation and the city of Munich got along.

He stopped at a light, attempting to get onto the stretch of road called the "A8", the southern bundesautobahn that goes through much of Southern Germany, and connects with Luxembourg to the west and Austria to the east. He kept his eyes fixed to the road in front of him, watching the light to allow him to turn onto the roadway. To his left, a junked-up 1997 Volkswagen Golf pulled to the light. It's engine whirled and clicked, evidence of poor maintenance. Viktor refused to make eye contact, still staring at the light. He made a subconscious attempt to hide his hands from the driver next to him, however; just to buy himself time.

His heart dropped as the driver put the car in park and began to manually roll down his window. Viktor side eyed him, just enough to see who the driver was as the window rolled, giving way to once was a shadowy outline of a figure into a more detailed shape. He was a fat, greasy boar, a cigarette hanging out of the base of his snout. His car peeled smoke, enough to make Viktor gag on it. This amused the boar.