Introducing Side B, otherwise known as alternating chapters of flashbacks. Solves the problem of having two seperate pieces of work ongoing that seem to have become too intertwined to effectively separate them. In this case, mashing them together in a take-turns way appeals to me. Reviews are as ever most appreciated: it's hard to improve if you never find out what works and what doesn't, after all. Standard disclaimers apply.

Falco was, as ever, hiding. His experience of hanging around other gangers was that they treated him as a non-person, fit only for scurrying after scraps of food, or else sending him to steal from the other gangs.

At least Tideswell would spare him attention every now and then, most often by ensuring he didn't starve to death. On occasion he even threw clothes that fitted him his way. The old dog had been boss of their gang for a long time now, long enough that he could afford to be a little soft-hearted every now and then, when it suited him...

"Falc! Getcha scrawny ass ovah here!"

...and in return, Falco was as loyal and obedient a follower as he could manage. Sometimes that wasn't much, but it was enough to make the old guy happy, so it was all good in the end. Much though he'd be the last to admit it, in some ways he looked up to the old guy.

"Falco!"

Well, looked up to him when he wasn't being an angry old grump, anyway. Seeing as how that accounted for two thirds of each day, Falco spent a lot of time on his own, exploring those parts of the city that belonged to his gang, and plenty more that didn't. Being scrawny and fast on his feet also meant he was harder to see, a fact that he took advantage of whenever he could.

"If I don't see ya down here in ten seconds, I'm gonna pluck and roast ya!"

It did him little good to hide when the boss always knew where he was tucked away, though. Falco sighed and rolled off his seats, snatching up his knife from the floor in one smooth motion to hook it on his belt, before heading down the steps two at a time. Best to keep the old guy sweet while he could. Tideswell gave him a sidelong glance, sweeping his shaggy grey and white fur out of his eyes, smirking as he approached before turning to the rest.

They, being the East River Gang, were currently holed up in the abandoned Ice Rink, as central a spot to gather as their territory could muster, about forty of them milling around the rink itself. It was dilapidated and run down, empty and disused even before things had gotten bad in the city. The paint was peeling from most surfaces, the ice had long since gone, but the building itself was still solid, which was all that mattered, really.

Falco had retreated to the highest spot he could find within moments of arriving here, scouting around amongst the remains of the blue plastic chairs, finding a stretch of them in decent enough condition to let him sprawl and keep a low profile. No point in being down there and picked on by every muscle-head he knew.

"I been hearin' rumours that the Southbridgers have been holin' up in Heather Towers." He paused to let the full impact of his words settle in. "Wanderin' into OUR patch like they own it! So I reckoned alla you fine folks'd be up for a little tidyin' up."

There was a rumble of approval from the group as the boss nodded and smiled. He'd managed to gather a good selection of the gang here, all the best fighters he'd found over the years, as battle-hardened and muscle-bound a bunch as you were ever going to find, and Glamis was a violent place. For the majority of his thirteen years alive, Falco had known to avoid such people.

One by one, they came forward and were given a role in the plan: There was always a plan to follow, always guidance as to what was required. No-one was stupid enough to argue about their part, they all knew that if they did what was asked, things would probably work out.

Tideswell had been considered the gang's leader for this long on the basis of how, under his control, they had managed to keep hold of their turf. Well, that and the fact that he had a right hook so fierce, he could knock out even the strongest of them with barely any effort.

"What you want me for, boss?" Falco asked as the last few gangers dispersed into the night. The old dog turned to him with a massive grin and a dangerous gleam in his eye.

"Oh, boy, I got a doozy of a job for you."

* * *

It wasn't too hard to imagine a time long past when the city might have been an alright place to live. Not a good place by any means, but somewhere you could get along okay, if you wanted to. There had been parks here once, where now there was only a sprawl of yellowed, overgrown grass and a maze of tents where those with no money and no gang lived.

When the money system went all to hell (Falco paid scant attention, so he wasn't too sure how, but the boss had said something about the banks becoming distrustful of one another, and all the buying and selling that keeps things up and running went bad, and then worse and worse), and then... Glamis, the way he'd always known it, had appeared.

There were these vast areas to the west, huge automatic factories that worked day and night without end, churning out whatever it was people needed made in such vast amounts, while the rich drifted above it all in their floating cities, ignoring the world below. And if it wasn't factories, or floating cities, or dives like Glamis, then it was tanglethorn trees in vast forbidding rings around the factories, the only plant on Macbeth that seemed to thrive in the choking fumes those factories pumped out all the time.

None of which mattered to Falco right now (except the floating cities, maybe: from time to time he would imagine what it was like to be one of the spoilt-stupid kids of some rich baron, up in their gilded paradise), clambering as he was through the air-con vents of the apartment block. By now his tattered black trousers were coated with thick gray dust, the thick charcoal winter jacket he'd found a few months ago looking even worse, the various tears and nicks catching every time he brushed against the sides of the narrow passage..

He reached what seemed to be a vent and peeked through the grille: the room on the other side was bare, save for the scraps of dirty yellow wallpaper hanging from the walls and the rampant mildew: its damp odour seemed to be everywhere. Even the floors were stark. He kicked through and dropped into the room, knife in hand, eyes darting from left to right, scoping out trouble.

The door was ajar, he noticed, a sliver of the corridor visible through the crack. With slow, careful steps, he drew close, held his breath and listened, trying to block out the sound of his own heart thundering in his chest. When that didn't help, he risked peeking through the crack in the door, then gingerly pulled the door open further and stuck his head out as little as he could manage, attention flashing from left to right. Nothing.

He had to be cautious here: Heather Towers was pretty much empty, but there were non-gangers here too. If he so much as gave one of them a papercut and Tideswell found out about it... a shudder coursed down his back at the idea: Tideswell didn't approve of violence against non-gangers At All.

Making his way to the window, he glanced out into the night. So far he'd counted ten Southbridgers in the building and two outside, perhaps there to act as scouts. A few of them had found a couple and their kid hiding out in one of the apartments at the end of the hall on this floor, however, and were holding them captive. No doubt the boss had his own ideas about how to deal with those particular gangers.

Rough fingers clamped over his beak: he struggled for only a moment before his assailant had grabbed the wrist of his knife-hand, holding fast.

"Hush up, Falco," Tideswell whispered in his ear, letting go as Falco relaxed himself. "How we lookin'?"

"Second floor's empty, first has got six, four on this floor, but they're at the end of the hall in the right room, with some non-gangers."

The old sheepdog nodded and vanished out the door again: moments later there came shouts and the sound of fighting, echoing down the hall as people stormed past. Falco tried to move out and join in with the action, but Tideswell appeared in the door frame again, giving him a warning look that made him think twice about arguing the point. Little by little the chaos died down, quietened...

Out of nowhere, a scream cut across everything, a high, shrill noise that seemed to deaden everything else. The old dog's eyes widened in shock before his brow dropped into a scowl. Then he took off down the hall, fists clenched tight, the look on his face dark enough to kill. Falco trailed close behind him unsure what else to do, but knowing better than to overtake: Tideswell's bad moods were like storms, unfocused but capable of striking at those who fell beneath them. The other members of their gang scrambled out of his way as he approached. Somewhere in the background he could hear muted sobbing.

Falco found himself in the doorway before he realised, his attention sliding downwards, focused on the floor: somehow he'd managed to step in a little trickle of blood. He supposed that he'd have to clean his shoes... then the shutters in his brain began to rise, exposing him to the awfulness of the scene by degrees.

They were... they had been a couple of cold-bloods, couldn't tell what species, having seen no more than a handful in his whole life. The man was sprawled over the edge of a dirty-looking chair, half-laying on his back on the grime-encrusted floor. He seemed somehow weary; definitely the older of the two adults, with his heavily lined face, eyes a pearly cream mixed with gold, dotted with tiny flecks of brilliant green and his pupils pulled into tiny black pinpricks.

It was easy to see so much detail in those eyes when they were staring right at him.

His head had been twisted to an impossible angle, his mouth opened a tiny crack, from which a line of spittle trailed to the floor, thick, viscous looking stuff, like glue. His arms and legs were spread in awkward, painful-looking positions. He was definitely dead, and recently too. Looked like it had been pretty much instant, the moment his neck had been broken.

The woman... she was writhing on the floor, legs kicking out at invisible attackers, the motions hypnotic, even though they were jerky and erratic. Maybe because of that. As soon as Falco looked at her he couldn't tear his gaze away. She had both hands wrapped round her neck, as though trying to strangle herself, the blood oozing through her fingers, so unnaturally bright against the dull green skin that the image seared itself into him.

He must have made a sound, or some kind of subtle motion, because at that exact moment, her eyes settled on him. and it felt like the whole scene just exploded in his head, embedding itself against the inside of his skull. His stomach clenched, the bile rising, he wanted to be anywhere but here.

"Aw fer f... get the kids outta here!"

Tideswell sounded like he was speaking from another planet. Falco barely noticed when Shorae, the boss's right hand man, clamped hands on both his shoulders and steered him out of the room, pushing him into a corner at the end of the hall. The tiger never once let go, his grip an absolute command on his motion.

He couldn't stop thinking about her eyes as she'd looked at him... It was as though the whole world had dropped away from him. Even though he was out of the room, he could still feel it boring into him, like she'd never stopped staring at him, eyes full of terror and... what, blame? Was she blaming him for what had happened? But he wasn't the one who'd... his stomach rattled and shuddered inside him, warning against such thoughts.

"Falco!!" He felt his shoulders being shaken roughly and blinked, looking up at Shorae, attention becoming focused on the curve of his maw, the glint of his teeth, the well-groomed lie of his striped fur, like everything had been broken down to elements, and he could see only one at a time. In his daze he reflected that Shorae was, if looked at as bits and pieces, kind of amazing. "Take care of the kid. Keep him HERE."

Someone was sobbing next to him, dropped by his side without ceremony. As Shorae moved away the newcomer made a move to follow, but Falco was still clear-minded enough to remember he'd been given a job to do. He stuck his arm out and the other kid bounced off it, falling on his ass again, his crying only interrupted for a second or two before continuing. From the room, there was muffled talking, then a long period of silence.

One by one, the East Rivers filed past him and out the front door, some of them carrying their beaten rivals between them, tied up and unconscious for the most part. No-one said a word. Falco watched their retreating backs, his brain feeling both overtaxed and empty. Like his other thoughts had gotten scared and run off.

Once the others had gone, Tideswell appeared, walking over to them and standing in front of them. He reached out, dangling a gold band on a chain in front of the cold-blood kid. Falco could still see the blood on it, sunk into the grooves of the pattern, even into the inscription.

"Keep a'hold of this, kid. Yer ma would'a wanted ya to keep it."

An emerald green hand reached out and, after a moments hesitation, took the ring. The scales on his arm seemed so fine as to be near invisible, the colour vivid. Falco turned and looked at the kid's face: the other boy looked eleven, if even that.

"Falco." Tideswell was looking at him, expression serious. "Need ya to look after this guy for a while, okay? Keep him outta the kind of trouble you get into, ya hear me?" The old dog patted his shoulder and trudged away.

The touch was enough to bring him out of his daze, and he tried to shake a little brain activity back into his head. Right now everything seemed pretty unreal, and any task he could preoccupy himself with was worth considering. Next to him, the boy reached behind his head and fastened the chain around his neck, hiding the ring inside his shirt.

"What's your name?" Falco asked, when it had been done.

He wasn't sure what he was expecting, but the kid jerked round in a panic and looked straight at him, wary, as though he'd thought himself alone. His eyes, so like his mother's that before Falco could blink he was standing back in that doorway, eyes locked with hers. Transfixed by that wild, accusing stare.

"I'm Leon. Leon Powalski."