A/N: I'm back~! If you're new here: firstly, welcome to the world of the second flock; secondly, please read Differential Coefficient first- this is a sequel, and won't make sense without it. For my lovely and admirable returning readers, welcome back! Thanks for reading, guys, and enjoy~
Without further ado, I present:
The Second Flock: The Price Of Freedom
Griffin
"Come on," Eila prompted, shouldering her backpack and easing her wings free of her windbreaker. Kichiro leaned on the wall, dark eyes following our movements. Fleur took the final pack off Nudge, and the younger girl smiled. Gazzy and Angel crowded around Mist, Bobby and Blaze. Orion shouldered his backpack and slid into Dr Martinez's car. Blaze hugged Mist, and whispered in her ear. They bumped fists and the fox-boy slid into Max's mom's car. The skies were greyish, and the long, dead grass swayed in the warm breeze shifting around us. The good doctor started the car's engine; the car shifted and moved off along the dusty, cracked road. We were the only ones around for miles, save for the little town where we got all our essential needs. We were on the south-eastern grass plains of Arizona. The house we had lived in was old, with silvering wooden cladding and a pond out the back, with a huge old tree and a tire swing.
"Bye!" we all called, waving frantically. Mist stared after the departing vehicle until it couldn't be seen any more. She looked uncertain as to whether she wanted to fly after them or stay with us. The boys would be fine. Orion had said that they'd look for other mutants. After all, Blaze could 'retract' his ears and tail like Mist could. Orion could disguise the tiny horns in his thick, curly hair with a baseball cap. With clothes and shoes, he looked normal, if very muscle-y.
Iggy elbowed me.
"What?" I asked. He stared at me solemnly, gripping my wrist.
'Promise me you'll do what you can," he said. I nodded solemnly.
"Yeah, I know. The world needs it saviour," I said.
"And the saviour needs her soulmate," he finished. "I know you'll find him."
"We'll do whatever needs to be done," I said. Nudge came over with Eila.
"Are you clear on where to go?" she asked, fingers drumming against her thigh.
"Yeah," Eila said. I nodded, and Eila continued. "Detroit, right?"
"I'm sorry I couldn't get you anything more than that," she said, "Fang covered his tracks well. Mostly the IP addresses trailed back to internet cafes and stuff, and he only updates every two weeks."
"He might have moved on already," Iggy added. "I'd say, he could probably cover 450 kilometres a day, maybe more if he really went at it."
"We'd better go before this storm sets in," Eila said, scanning the sky. She pointed to the distant horizon, where livid clouds hung low over the ground.
"Yeah," I said. The rest of the flock seemed finished with their goodbyes.
"Guys," I called. "It's time."
They turned to me. They understood. I understood. That didn't stop the sadness that we all felt at leaving the other flock.
"Time to U and A, guys," I repeated.
We lined up in single file on the road, taking run-ups before jumping into the air. We waved at the other flock until we couldn't see them from the altitude that we'd reached. When the house finally faded from the horizon, We turned forward, taking a V formation.
"It's Detroit or bust, guys!" I called, grinning. The others let out whoops, and a strong wind blew from behind us, pushing us along at twice our regular speed. Mist grinned, giving me a double thumbs up. I smiled.
We were together. We had escaped Itex. We were flying, homeless and on the run. We needed to find Fang to save Max and consequently save the rest of the world.
Still, it's kind of hard to beat the sheer joy that comes from flying.
Fang scratched the back of his neck and pushed open the door. He simply didn't believe that there was a bar called The Hangman in twenty-first century America. The name seemed to harken back from the era of nobles and merchants, and the poor who lived on what refuse they could. He could almost see it in front of him. He slipped inside, fanning his hand in front of his face to dispel the heavy smoke hanging around him. There were only three lamps lit, and old-fashioned ones at that, barely even electric. The wooden tables and chairs were stained and much abused, there was only the bartender for company.
She watched him with wary eyes. It was like staring into mirrors, he thought. She couldn't be more than roughly eighteen, nineteen at the most, but her expression hid some of the same cold steel that he and -it hurt to think it- his old flock, his Max... He shoved the thought from his mind. He didn't want to know about it now. Instead, he collapsed on one of the bar stools in front of the girl at the bar. Her greasy brown hair was twisted around a much bitten pencil, and her white shirt was more stained and grey than white. In the faint light, he could see the faint glint of metal under the worn fabric. Threads of silver spidered across the backs of her hands like veins, trailing up her arms and melting into bunches of metal cables- her hybridised, artificial muscles.
"One vodka sunrise."
"We don't serve no cocktails, mister," she said. A smile tugged at his lips. He remembered having this conversation. The girl put the glass she was polishing down on the bench top, and picked up another.
"A mint julep, then, or a Black Russian?"
"I told you, once, boy-"
He really did chuckle that time. "Maris, you're repeating yourself."
She set the glass down with a slam. A grin lifted one side of her thin lips, and her muddy brown eyes lifted from their intent inspection of the beer tanker and cloth in her hands. The smell of cold tomato soup clung to her, and he couldn't help but remember the first time they'd met, as she was serving cold tomato soup to mutant kids wanting hard liquor to drown their sorrows.
"Fang, you rascal," she grinned. "What is it this time?"
Fang tried to put on his very best innocent face. "What, no greeting? No, 'It's been two years too long'? Maris, Maris, you're really slipping these days."
Maris shrugged. "I don't get out much. The Hangman hasn't seen so much as a drunken cat-guy since Denver ripped the place up thirteen months back."
"Honest?"
"Well, no," Maris said, "it's just been a real slow couple o' months. The regulars, even Blessed Thinker, they've been trickling out."
"Not Blessed Thinker, surely?" Fang asked. Blessed Thinker, well, he all but lived at The Hangman, last time he checked. That drunken old coot, he looked fifty at the age of eighteen. Being a chimp-armadillo-pug-bulldog cross, the wrinkles came naturally. He'd asked Maris to keep track of mutants that came to The Hangman. Maris' aura attracted other hybrids naturally, and kept the humans out. He'd asked her to keep him posted, but he had to make rounds every once in a while.
The set of Maris' mouth was firm as she replied. "It's been a long time, Fang, a long time in our years."
"What about Asakashi, Sly Nun, Emerald, Pretender?"
"Haven't heard from them," she said. "It's getting bad. You know there used to be a lot of kids like us around. When you came round first, I counted fifty of us on a good season, just in Detroit. They still churn us out like plastic toys, I bet, but..."
"But, what?" he asked. Maris was painting a very grim picture for him.
"They're hauling us back in, that's what," she snapped, the sighed. "I'm still here a'cos I'm waiting for kids like us to come back in. Last I saw of anyone was Sly Nun, maybe, four, five weeks ago? And there was Drainpipe, on Thursday two weeks back."
"They're rounding us up, aren't they," he whispered. The corner of her mouth twitched.
"I'll keep looking out Fang, but there's nothing else I can do."
He got up from the bar stool.
"I'd better go," he said. "You know how much they want me back."
Maris nodded. "You don't want a vodka shot, then?"
Fang raised an eyebrow.
"One more question," he said. Maris nodded, cocking her head to the side.
"Madame Zhenechka is still around these parts, isn't she?"
"Madame Zhenechka wouldn't move if you tried to ram her with a bulldozer," Maris replied bluntly. She leaned over and ruffled Fang's hair in what he hoped was affection and not irritation at his needing a haircut.
"Thanks, Maris."
Fang left. He had one more person to visit before he left Detroit.