A/N: Ideas for this story have been in my head for the past couple of years, but I'm finally putting it on paper. I'll hope to have semi-regular updates, but college might prevent that from happening. Whatever the case, I'm going to try to finish this as consistently as possible and finish this in under a year.

The title of this story, In Rainbows, comes mostly from the Radiohead album that inspired a lot of ideas for this story. I'm leaving this rated T, but some of the chapters might push the upper boundaries to M in terms of language and violence. This first chapter is an example of that.

IN RAINBOWS

Nostalgia

Let's begin with the letter.

It's a typical Sunday afternoon for me. I'm alternating between plonking my ass on the couch to watch news, or plonking my ass on the dinner table to finish Calculus problem sets. Whoever says the Flight Academy's academics are a joke is lying—there literally aren't enough hours in the day to learn flight, combat training, and the top private-school level academics we're given. But I've stopped complaining about the unreasonable workload since sophomore year, once I realized the amount of bullshit CFA can pile on us approaches pretty damn close to infinity.

So now I'm on my rotation of attempting this week's problem set, except you can only solve triple integrals for so many hours before they get less-than thrilling. I stretch out my arms and my tail and glance back over at the television. I need to take a break, but news is slow today; it's the same stories of crime rates, Parliament changes, and Venom speculation.

I might snack on something, if we have anything. A note on the fridge confirms my fears. Hey Wolf. Didn't buy groceries last night, I might be working late again tonight. Dinner's in the fridge. At some point I should learn to never trust Rus to do groceries. My Calculus textbook stares at me from the dinner table.

Menial chores it is. I wash the dishes, tidy up the living room, and walk outside to check the mail. Looking down the row of giant houses on the street, I'm still amazed that entire families live in these homes and have lived here for generations. It's a community of pretentious, wealthy people, and then my uncle and I.

I grab the mail and turn back to our house, the most plain one on the street. Our grass is paler, and our sidewalk isn't lined with roses and flamingos. Somehow it sticks out by not being ostentatious enough. I sort through the mail on the dinner table: letters from AeroSpace for Rus, a brochure of graduate military academies for me, and an unlabeled piece of dry parchment.

My clawtip brushes against the coarse material. Whoever's writing to us is six centuries behind. I'm amused at first, but then I flip over the folded piece of parchment to see the world Lupin scrawled in all-too-familiar neat handwriting. My mood plummets, and I scowl. That name—my codename—jolts my memory to a life that I'm not sure if I want to revisit. My eyes run over the short message.

I've left. Story too strange, ask Push. It's inevitable we'll meet again in the future, but I won't know whether to be proud or disappointed if we do.
—Lambda

I read it again, then a third time for good measure, just to make sure it's real. Lambda—Leon Powalski—has left. I hadn't seen him at the Academy since this school year started, but I never bothered to search him out. Since I ditched my burner phone earlier this year, I hadn't seen any of them for months. Still, Leon could have at least not been so vague. We used strange as a euphemism for compromising, but we had more specific euphemisms for most of the illegal shit we did. Something's off, especially since Leon wants me to talk to Push about this, knowing how much we hate each other.

I realize now that I'm standing back at the doorway, but I stop myself. Something's biting at me, telling me that I should leave this alone. Nothing can go wrong if I sit home and twiddle my thumbs. Hell, the best course of action is probably to twiddle my thumbs. What could I accomplish from this trip? Why don't I forget about all of them?

I plop my ass back on the uncomfortably hard dining chair and force myself to finish this problem set, but part of me knows it's not happening. All these numbers and Greek symbols are pissing me off more than usual—a feat in and of itself—and reminding me of a certain reptile that disappeared with no explanation.

Aggravated, I slam my pen on the table, snatch my car keys, and head out the door. All that's in my mind is a very simple question.

Where the hell is Leon?

Today's one of those stereotypically summer days; look up and all you see is blue sky, warm rays of sun, and birds chirping. Except look a bit further down to the horizon and you only see dilapidated buildings with bricks chipped off and bulletholes in the windows, beercans, newspapers, and trash littering the streets, and bored people sitting at their porches staring at you. But what really gets you is the scent. In the rest of the city, scent neutralizers have made fresh air synonymous with odor-free staleness. No one bothered to install neutralizers here, so all the scents of people mix into a strange odor of life.

Welcome to Kingston Hill.

I've always wondered how these ghettos develop. Drive north twenty minutes to where the rest of the wealth is, where the skyscrapers touch the heavens, and you wouldn't believe both places are in Corneria City. You'd think with how much the city has boomed in the past decades, it'd be in someone's interest to funnel money into these areas. But sure enough, these little isolated pockets of life don't seem to change.

Somehow I convinced myself that walking directly to the Hearts' hangout was the greatest idea in the world. I tried to forget about this life because it wasn't necessary anymore—being a drug kingpin isn't exactly a past occupation you can put on many résumés. But if this is the only way I can find out where Leon went, then I have to be here.

On the corner of 5th and Main sits the familiar building. Tears rip through the small awning, and the sign in block red letters reads TH PA N SHOP. It was never so much a working pawn shop as it was a hideout for stolen and illegal goods. Honestly, with the lack of police presence here, the sign might as well have said WE SELL CRACK and no one would have batted an eye.

I keep tapping on the doorbell until the sharp dings annoy me. The shop's closed on weekends, but I figure if anyone's here now, they're going to see who's bothering them. Eventually a primate comes up from a staircase and flicks on a light. One of our—one of Push's lackeys. Familiar face, couldn't tell you even his codename. As he cracks open the glass door, a strong whiff of tobacco hits my nose.

"What d'ya want?" The primate's rough voice matches his scarred face.

I feign a smile. "Neckties, obviously."

He blinks. "No one's here. Leave."

"Excuse me? You know who you're talking to—"

"No one's here, Lupin," he spits, drawing out the word. "Listen, you don't want to be here right now."

I cross my arms. "Who should I be afraid of? You said no one's here, right?" He makes a strange guttural noise at this. "Let me in, I just need to talk to you, and anyone else who might be in here."

He cranes his neck out of the exit, peering into the street. "I have nothing to talk about."

"But I do. It's about Lambda." His shoulders crunch up just a little, as if he took in an extra sip of breath his body can't hold. "And I'm assuming it's about something neither you nor Push knows about. Let me in."

He stares at me, his yellow eyes looking me over for a second before opening the door all the way. "You don't want to be here right now," he repeats, leading me inside. The stench of tobacco hits me full force now, and as I walk downstairs to the basement, all I can make out in the dim light is a thin sheet of haze.

Chatter becomes audible and gets louder. These stairs are longer than I remember, and for a brief moment I second-guess my plan before taking a deep breath and puffing out my chest. Sure Push never liked me that much, but to be fair, I never liked him either, and he should be much more afraid of me than I am of him.

We walk into a small room, lit only by a dim incandescent bulb hanging from the ceiling. Sitting at the end of the table is the primate in question, his tail flicking behind him and a cigar dangling from his mouth. I don't think he owns shirts that aren't tanktops—he never misses the chance to show off his biceps and the scars that run down his forearms. He's short, but what he lacks in height he makes up for in a ridiculous blonde mohawk and unparalleled arrogance that even I can't match.

As I walk towards the table, Push reclines further back in his chair, a sly smile creeping on his face, but the other three men in the room—all reptiles—stand and shoot me glares. "Welcome back," he says, his low voice drawling. "How's life been?"

"Fair," I say, keeping an eye on the lizards' movements. "As always. You?"

"Shit, as always." He's still smiling. "So what'd you come down here for? Wanted to enjoy the Hearts' hospitality?"

I laugh. "You call armed guards staring me down hospitality?"

"Show a little respect for them, Lupin. Whatever you came here to say can't be that important; they can stay."

"Show a little respect for the person who got you into this position in the first place, Push."

For a brief second he narrows his eyes, but he snaps back into his arrogant persona, flicking his hand. "Gotta talk to the man one on one." His cronies shuffle up the stairs, and now it's just me standing on the opposite end of the table he's sitting at. "By the way, don't call me Push in front of the others. I'm rebranding myself. I'm King to them. King of Hearts." When I raise an eyebrow, his smile widens. "Don't be upset, we're all changing. Lambda's the Ace, obviously—"

"And what does that make me?"

He smirks. "Queen."

This irritates me more than it should. I give him time to snicker at his own joke. "Anyway—"

"This is about Lambda," I say, cutting him off. "He sent me a note. Wanted me to ask you why and where he left."

Push stares at me for a while, face blank, before smiling again. "Aww . . . he didn't tell you?"

"What?" It won't take much more of Push's bullshit before I punch his stupid grin off his face. "Of course he wouldn't tell me over public mail. He can't contact me otherwise."

"Maybe he wasn't trying to hide secrets from no one. Maybe he didn't tell you cause he didn't want to. Which is sad, because I thought you two were best friends." Push's voice raises two octaves while saying that, as if he's talking to a six year old. He wants me to be pissed off—and I am—but like hell I'm going to show it.

I cross my arms. "I doubt he favors you over me."

"Harsh. Even so, since he's gone, and you've deserted us, I've inherited the throne, so my mouth is word of law. Far as I'm concerned, where he's gone is none of your business."

"I haven't deserted—"

"Oh fuck off with that." Push's tone tenses, and he speaks faster. "As soon as you became the rich Cornerian boy you deserted us. Don't act like showing up every couple of months and dropping contacts means we like you. Hearts are a family, and you ain't part of the picture no more."

"Besides," he continues, "we don't need your small-time clients. Maybe if you'd been here, you'd have not only known where Leon went, but you'd have known what happened to us. Who we've gotten offers from." He stretches his arms out. "We're on a bigger scale than you can even fathom. I mean, it's not too late to join back in, but right now we don't miss you one bit."

"Unless I come crawling at your feet."

Push leans in. "Yeah. You can still always quit the Academy."

"Not exactly an option."

"Why not? Lambda did it. You already learned how to fly. Don't tell me . . . " and again with his voice raising octaves, " . . . you plan on serving for those specieist fuckers?"

I shrug. "Maybe, maybe not."

For the first time, Push isn't faking a smile, instead glaring at me with contempt. "What else would I expect from a canine?"

I try to ignore his hypocrisy. "Don't pretend like this is why you dislike me."

He smiles again, brushing a finger through his mohawk. "Nah, I dislike you cause you're an arrogant little bitch that needs to learn his place. Still, didn't think you of all people would be serving for the hegemony. Weren't those your words at one point? You don't think war's just around the corner? You don't think—"

"I didn't come to listen to you rant. I came to ask where Lambda is."

"And I've given you my answer. Quit the Academy, come back to your family, and maybe you'll know."

I pause, staring into his beady eyes. "That isn't happening."

"Then fuck off."

Push's jaw tightens, his eyes narrow, and he braces his arms as if he'll leap across the table and strangle me, but he soon leans back and puts on his air of exaggerated arrogance. It's unnerving how comfortable he is. Just as I thought, this trip amounted to absolutely nothing. At this point, we're back to the same old petty games, with us constantly trying to one-up each other. Except now he has the upper hand, and the only thing I can do is walk out of here with my tail between my legs.

His eyes follow me as I head out. Eventually I turn and start up the dark, unlit staircase. "Don't worry," I say. "I'll be back in a few months. Gotta keep up appearances."

He chuckles. "Yeah. See ya later, Wolf O'Donnell."

My foot freezes on the next step. There's no reason for him to know my name. "Startled?" he drawls. "Maybe Lambda wasn't as close of a friend as you thought."

I turn around slowly, staring at the pistol that's now pointed at my head. "Coward," I say. "You were going to shoot me with my back turned? I expected more—"

"Shut up!" The arrogant act is over, and now Push is just filled with rage. His right arm is extended, trembling. "I don't have to prove anything to you."

Before I say something stupid, I remind myself that this scenario isn't normal. I should count myself lucky that after dealing with gangs and dealing drugs half my life, this is the first time a gun's been pointed in my face. It's surreal—I'm a sarcastic quip away from being a furry carcass on the ground with a bullet to the temple.

"Cat got your tongue, O'Donnell?"

I try thinking of something smart to say to get myself out of this mess, but as he steadies his aim to my forehead, all that comes out is, "Wait!"

"Aww, your final plea?" He's pointing the blaster up and down my body. He's practically getting off right now; being in this position of power is exhilarating for him. Like he's better than me. Like he's earned any of it.

"You sure you want to kill the rich Cornerian kid?" I take a step back down the stairs, inching towards him. "People will notice I'm missing. Police will actually care about this murder." Push's gritting his teeth now. "And I don't think you have experience covering up risky crimes. There's blood in your hideout and traces of you everywhere here, on these streets—"

"Stop moving—"

"Most importantly, rich kids don't keep cash on them." Slowly, I reach for my wallet and show my bank cards. His arm tenses, but unless I'm misreading him heavily, he won't pull the trigger. "They're in cards and Aquinian bank accounts. You shoot, and my PINs and passwords die with me."

Push lowers his voice. "You tryna pay your own ransom? Cause you can't and you won't."

"But I can, and I will." I keep inching forward, until now I'm standing back at the table. "You talk a lot about your great offers but you seem pretty strapped for cash. You're still smoking cheap tobacco."

His eyes are fixated on the bank cards, and now I'm close enough to feel his breath. His grip on the trigger loosens. "You're lucky I'm generous," he mutters. "Give me your wallet and come with me to the bank. And when we're done, pray to the Gods you never see me again."

You're lucky I'm generous? I'm lucky he doesn't have a brain. But I smile and say, "Deal."

I put my wallet in his hand. Right as he clasps it, I strike his other wrist with my forearm and his blaster drops with a clank onto the table. I swipe it away, and it takes him a second to realize what I've done before his face contorts in anger, and he lunges onto the table at me. I crouch, clutch his body, and swivel over, using his momentum to throw both of us on the ground.

He's pinned under me. He throws a punch, but I block it with my paw. Push's one of those tools that goes to the gym and only works on his arms and chest, so he doesn't have the strength to push me off of him. He's just squirming under me, trying to escape my hold.

"I swear to—"

Crack. My knuckles sting a bit from the punch, but judging by the sound of Push's muzzle and his whiny yelps, he's feeling most of the pain. Each—crack—punch—crack—bloodies his face. He's squirming less now, whimpering below me.

I flip him onto his stomach, keeping his body pinned, and I push the side of his face onto the rough carpet with my right hand. My free hand grabs my knife and waves it in front of Push's eyes. Leaning into his face, I whisper in his ear. "You're going to tell me where Lambda is."

He spits out blood before saying, "Bullshit I will."

I tighten my grip on my knife and I notice him quiver. Slowly, I drag the blade across his face and to his ear—not enough to puncture his skin, but enough for him to feel the blade's sharp edge. "Where's Lambda?" I ask again.

"I told you—"

The ear's pretty sensitive to pain—so much so that Push shudders when I barely press the knife tip against it. "Okay!" I stop and let Push gasp for air. "He's in Venom! Lambda's in Venom. Now get off me you freak!"

Venom? "Who did you get your offer from? Why did he leave for Venom?"

Push bites his lip and tilts his head as much as he can to stare into my eyes. "I don't know why he left. As for who, I ain't saying anything about that. What he can do to me is ten times worse than what you can even imagine."

"He? Lambda?"

"No—listen, run back home while you can. He finds out I said anything and I'm dead. We're all dead."

Even when he's a bloody mess pinned under me, he's still condescending as all hell. "One more thing, Push," I say, placing my knife against his forehead. "Don't forget the person who made you a king. I want you to admit that I'm better than you."

Push just smirks, showing a row of bloody teeth. "Petty motherfucker, I ain't doing that. What are you going to do, scalp me?"

I smirk back. I start pressing the knife against his forehead, gently, and at first he only tenses his body, but as I push deeper his eyes widen and he yells in fear. "Okay! Okay!" His legs are kicking, trembling, like he's having a seizure. "You're better than me!"

I wait, and his body goes limp. He closes his eyes in relief. I lean into his ear and whisper. "Mean it."

I keep pressing. "You're better than me!" He's practically crying. "Please, Wolf—Lupin—fuck, you're better than me! You'rebetterthanmeyou'rebetterthanmeyou're—"

I stop pushing again and he whimpers. Blood trickles down his face. For a second I draw my knife back, but then I place my paw over his muzzle, silencing his screams as my knife cuts through the blonde tuft of hair on his head.

"This is just so everyone knows," I say, dangling his hair in front of his eyes. His eyes look lost and his mouth hangs agape—I'm not sure if he's grateful I didn't actually scalp him, or horrified that I cut his precious mohawk. I let the image sink in for a few more seconds before striking his temple, knocking him out cold.

Standing up, I grab my wallet and Push's blaster from the table before glancing back at the bloody heap of fur on the ground. I can only keep my eyes on him for a second before cold shudders make my fur stand on end. Can't say I'm particularly proud of how sadistic I got. It wasn't even a fair fight—I just toyed with him.

But he had a gun pointed at my face. That's my justification.

I go to the bathroom sink to wash Push's blood off my fur and clothes, then walk back up the impossibly long staircase into the store lobby. His cronies are playing some card game at the counter, turning their heads at me when I close the door. None of them will say anything to me, but I can see their raised eyebrows and questioning stares. "We just had a talk," I say, opening the door to outside.

Fresh, tobacco-less air hits me again. Early-September wind breezes past me as the sun beams orange rays into the evening sky. If I were a film director, I'd have a romantic ballad play as the protagonist leans in to kiss the love of his life—except there's no music, just silence, it's still Kingston Hill, and I nearly murdered a man.

Eerily tranquil, given that.

I wait to turn the block before I start sprinting. By now, the rest of his gang may have gone downstairs to see unconscious, bloody Push, and may be running back up the stairs to tan my hide. Regardless of our past, if they're as loyal to Push as the man makes it sound, they'd shoot to kill me on sight. After a few minutes, I reach my car parked on the corner of 2nd and Saks, the cutoff where Kingston Hill turns into the next suburb. Rows of bright tulips hug the fences on my left, as if they can keep out the bleakness on my right.

I hop in the car and drive off quickly. I hoped earlier this trip would clear things up, but now my mind's buzzing. Leon's in Venom, which shouldn't mean much, since plenty of people, especially lizards and primates, have been moving there recently. But Leon's always been a special case. Drug cartels and organized crime are more prevalent there, and that's always been his thing, but still, his letter said it was complicated. I expected something more.

Someone honks at me for cutting them off, and I remind myself that it wouldn't be the smartest idea to get arrested right now. I can't wipe away the image of Push's matted, bloody face. It's not like I haven't beaten people to a pulp before—of all things in my life, why is this making me the most squeamish? I need to forget about him. If I did the job right, I intimidated him so much that he won't even think about confronting me again. Besides, I only have to see him when I go to him, and now that Leon's gone, I have no reason to ever step foot in Kingston Hill.

I can forget about Push. At least, I hope so.