Let me know how clear it is regarding whom I focus on. And vote on the poll on my profile. A new POV type, Dual Focus, is introduced at the beginning.
Roran and Eragon watched Katrina wave from the front door, the former with longing, and the latter with a squint under the dim streetlights.
When Katrina shut the door, Eragon's iPhone 4S rang. Neither of the brothers knew who'd be calling them at four in the morning.
"Hello? Yeah – Yes, he's here too. Lemme put you on speaker-phone."
"Roran!"
"Brom?"
Eragon nodded, and the older brother tilted his head. "What the hell're you doing, calling my little brother at four?"
The younger sibling glared at the protective nature of his brother, but Roran shrugged.
"Well," Brom said, his breath scratching the mic, "I figured you two weren't gonna be sleepin', and I was right in guessin' you were gonna be t'gether."
The boys sighed, and Eragon snapped before Roran. "So you just call us anyway? Our dad just died, but us being awake is an excuse?"
"Not at all! I'm just wonderin' if ya needed a place ta stay."
The looked at each other, asking permission with their expressions.
"Yes please," they both replied.
"Great! Now, where're ya?"
"Y'know Katrina?" asked Roran.
"Yeah! Sweet girl, she is. Her dad, not really. Not since 'is wife got jumped by that gang. Urgals, did 'ey call 'emselves? I remember when she was jus' a li'l girl. She'd—"
"Brom, before you start telling another one of your stories," Eragon blurted, "can you pick us up at her house?"
"And quickly too," Roran added.
"Course! I'll be there quicker'n a . . .Well, I'll be there soon, 'kay?"
They mumbled their thanks, and Eragon rolled his eyes while Roran scoffed.
"He's a nutcase, that old man," grumbled Eragon.
"You should be more grateful."
"Oh, don't gimme that! You think it too!"
They chuckled, knowing Eragon was right, but stopped when they remembered the night's events. It felt wrong to laugh when their father had just been murdered.
An aged VW Beetle, paint mostly peeled off and eroded by rust, skidded around a corner, wiggled to straighten its path and rubbed a burner into the already-chipping street. The brakes groaned when used, and the car flinched.
"See? There's no way he's sane!"
Roran approached the passenger side, but Eragon slid in front of him, shouting, "Shotgun!"
"Whatever." To Eragon's amusement and Roran's annoyance, the younger of the two seated himself in the back. The chairs had chunks of fabric missing, and yellow foam protruded from the holes. As Brom blurred the surroundings with the vehicle's speed, seatbelts rattled; the car leaned back, and everything trembled. A scraping sound rose behind the car, followed by a constant squeak.
"What is that?" Eragon demanded.
Brom chortled as if he'd listened to a comedian. "Oh, it's just that damned bumper again. Keeps comin' loose."
God, Roran prayed, please don't kill us yet.
Eragon, however, wanted to throw his arms up and cheer. It felt like the roller coasters he'd ridden as a kid, and Roran had always refused to go on them.
Roran unknowingly explained his reasons by vomitting on the back of Eragon's chair.
"Not again!" Both boys raised their eyebrows.
"Does this happen often?" Roran croaked.
"Those stains don't make 'emselves!"
They both gagged, but Roran accompanied the expression with more vomit.
A siren howled, and Brom yanked the car to the side of the road. A police sedan passed them and reversed, parking in front of the bug. Eragon choked on spit when he saw the officer, and Roran stifled a guffaw when he recognized Arya. Eragon attempted to yell at the older one, but his vocal chords wouldn't move.
Brom leaned out the empty window, which the boys assumed had fallen out.
"Sir, are you aware you were going ninety miles an hour without a license plate?"
"Guess it must've fallen off," the old man mused.
"Wait a minute . . . Brom?"
"Do I know ya?"
"Brom?" Fírnen sprinted to Arya's side. "Holy hell! It's really him!"
"And you are…?"
"Officer Fírnen," he chirped, shaking his hand eagerly. "I was just a uni when you were working."
Roran looked at Eragon, mouthing, 'What?'
The addressee just shrugged.
"License and registration please," Arya recited.
"Arya, do we really—"
"'Salright, sir. Here ya go."
Fírnen beamed at having been addressed with respect, but Arya shoved him aside, handing the identification back to Brom with a ticket.
"Fíren, would you stop worshipping your idol and get in the car? His passengers have been through enough already."
"P-Passengers?"
They saw him blush, and Eragon flushed as well, astounded that Arya had recognized him. Roran's face paled and greened in worry of more motion sickness.
Brom shifted the car from park, but it wheezed, exhaust pluming from the pipes. The engine wailed, and though an inanimate object, it died. "Stupid ancient technology."
Fíren sprinted back to the window, not pausing between words. "Doyaneedaride?"
"No! Fírnen, I'm the liaison! We have to report back to Chief Ajihad!"
Brom, ignoring the woman, answered, "Sure! Jus' take the Spine ta get t' the outskirts a Carvahall."
Roran coughed, surprised. "Brom! That's a pretty sketchy area."
"Oh, it'll be fine. Yer brother goes there all the time, doncha, Eragon?"
"Yeah, but—"
"Great!" Brom chirped, exiting the broken-down car.
Roran's heart stretched in anxiety, but Eragon's almost snapped.
"He does realize he's going in a cop car, right?"
"Like you said – he's bat-shit crazy."
XXX
While she didn't express it, she was thoroughly pissed. Fírnen was acting younger than the kid in the car, and while the civilian appeared around eighteen, the officer acted like he was twelve. The brother was older and should have moved out before Garrow's death. But in further misfortune, the former FBI agent, Brom, who had been discharged after a psych evaluation had proven the loss of his partner drove him insane, was with them.
Worse just became worst, she decided.
She wanted Fíren to stop gawking over a deranged old man, and she wanted the immature brat to hit on her so she could shun him. That way he'd at least hide his drooling better.
Additionally, they were in an area of town where she wouldn't attend on her lunch break, much less a quarter after four.
A pale young man stumbled towards the car, grabbing the trunk of a red Toyata Prius to keep upright in the left turn lane. The traffic light flicked to green, and she jammed her foot into the brake, releasing pressure when they exited the intersection.
"Arya," teased Fírnen, "did you just get scared?"
"Fírnen, did you just forget to shut your mouth?" In response, her partner gazed down at his lap where his twiddling thumbs rested. She felt guilty for snapping, but she instantly denied the emotion. In truth, she hadn't been angry at Fírnen, but more at herself for reacting the way she had, for it meant he was right. She had felt something, and she could not let it happen again.
A line of people wearing hoodies, hats and ripped jeans marched out from an alley to block the road. They whirled ninety degrees to face the vehicle, identities obscured by ski masks, except for the especially large silhouette in the center, who wore a bird mask.
Scratch that. Now it's come to worst, Arya corrected.
"Fírnen?"
"Okay, Arya, look. I'm sorry about—"
"Look in front of you."
The birdman raised his right hand, and the thugs behind him reached for various pockets and pouches. A few seconds later, he closed his talon-like fist, and guns were drawn, and the clicking testified to disabled safeties and cocking guns.
"Get down!" Arya shouted.
As the assailants spammed gunfire, bullets sparked against the car; glass shattered, burrowing into skin, and sulfur contaminated the air with the smell of rotten eggs.
Arya unholstered her pistol, jammed a clip into the bottom of the handle, leveled it onto the dash, released the safety and fired randomly. She glanced at Fírnen, who clutched his inner left bicep. Blood, flashing from gray to brownish-red upon the flashes of gunfire, trickled down the seat.
"Been hit."
"Crap!" she hissed, slamming the button to enable the police radio. The speakers just produced static.
"Bastards musta hit the antenna!" Brom spat.
"Kid," Arya whispered. "Can you call nine-one-one?"
"Phone's dead, and my brother doesn't have one."
She sighed. "Brom?"
"I'm too broke, but thanks fer remindin' me a my lost salary. Y'know. 'Cause I jus' needed the FBI ta rub—"
"Who is in the middle?" Arya interjected.
"I am," breathed the kid. She winced at what she was about to ask him. He'd been studying for the entire time, and she hated leading him on.
"I need you to grab the radio in the back of my belt."
"Whuh? Are – I – Er . . . Are you sure?"
"Do you honestly think that I would be making jokes right now? His—" she pointed her head at Fírnen "—communications are shorted by blood, and I need to return fire. I need both hands to control the recoil in this position."
"R-right. Sorry." The boy hesitated, slowly sliding the walkie-talkie up to avoid touching her.
"Really?" Fírnen derogated. "We're being fucking shot at! It ain't exactly the time for curtesy."
Eragon yanked the radio from the belt loop, but Arya blocked any discomfort from her mind. Emotions were for the weak, and right now she needed to be strong.
"Good," Arya encouraged. "See that switch on the side? Flip it to turn on the device, and hold down the button on the other side when you talk."
He complied, and a crackling voice demanded, "Who's this? We don't have anyone in your area."
"Well, these guys I think are FBI."
"FBI? They don't get police radios!"
"Well obviously they do, because they have them!"
"Seriously?" This guy was clueless, and if they weren't being shot at, she'd have slapped him. "Jus' tell 'im the situation!"
"Right. Well, we're in the Spine, and some dudes're shootin' at us."
"Where are you?"
"I just told you! The Spine!"
"For goodness' sakes, Eragon!" Brom yanked the device from his hands. "We're on Broddring 'n Tyranny. Several masked men've pinned us down. We need backup immediately! 'N agent has been shot!"
"Reinforcements en route."
Fírnen grimaced. "Y'know, Brom, we have codes that're much easier to say."
"Oh yeah, because they obviously haven't changed in the twenny years I been off the force!"
"Hey, Miss..." The voice was deeper than the younger boy, and despite the stressful predicament, it lacked the quavering too.
"Dröttning."
"Right, well, Eragon here knows a lot about, well, a lot. He might be able to help your friend."
"No."
"I can help," Eragon insisted.
Arya filled her lungs but strained her diaphragm to withhold any exhalation. Then, she realeased it, bellowing, "I am not going to let some kid – whom I hardly know – touch my bleeding partner!"
"I'm not a kid! I'm eighteen!"
"No, you are not a minor, but you have not grown up yet!"
"Arya," Fírnen groaned. "Just pull the switch to lower my seat and let 'im help."
"You could lose your arm, y'know." Her partner ground his bottom jaw against his upper teeth.
"It'll hurt a helluva lot less, then."
She pushed a button, and his seat slid back, tilting very closely to Brom, who pressed into his chair. As she reloaded her gun, she heard a zip behind her.
"Eragon, why're you taking off your jacket?" Roran inquired.
"Gotta wipe up the blood, and then I'll hafta tie it around the wound."
"Ow!"
"Sorry, but I doubt any of us have alcohol, so it's not gonna be numb and'll probably get infected."
"Actually…" muttered Brom. A popping noise sounded from an released cork, and a liquid sloshed. "Nineteen-som-mn-er-other. I was savin' it fer a special occasion. Ain't what I had in mind, but I guess this counts."
"This is probably a terrible idea, but it'll at least kill some bacteria. Anyone got another jacket?"
Another passenger unzipped theirs, and Arya heard two more sloshes. Fírnen screamed over the gunshots.
"Now, I don't really know exactly, but I'm pretty sure there's a nerve around where you got shot, so I hope you're right-handed. It also means you're gonna be in a crap-tonna pain."
Arya felt another emotion: rage. She rammed the trigger until it cut into her finger. She reloaded and swapped hands. Nerves didn't regrow, and damage to them could end Fírnen's career.
Sirens approached. Their wailing intensified. The drifting of cars shrieked, and the violence halved before ceasing. Arya pulled the door handle to her left. When she pushed it forward, it flew into the ground. Any remaining glass of the window shattered.
Eragon and his brother stepped out, whereas Bron slid from under the chair. Two paramedics attended to Fírnen, but she let them wheel him off, knowing she'd just hinder them anyway. Instead, she approached the officer with a notepad that spoke to Brom. She recounted the night's events, forbidding the luxury to feel, keeping her tone neutral. When she finished, the officer left.
"Why didn't a see 'im?" Brom interrogated.
"It was not my place."
"You're 'is partner. Don't ya care?"
"I do not really care about much of anything anymore."
"Nonesense."
She tired of the pressing queries. "No, it is not. Caring is for the weak."
"Ev'rybody cares about somethin'. It's unhealthy to avoid it."
"Oh? Because caring was so healthy for you?" She stormed to the nearest vehicle to get a ride home, ignorant of the effect her words had had on Brom.
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