223 Emerald Avenue; B-District. A short walk from the town square, and about a mile from EST HQ, you'd stumble across a block of low-income flats, a rather dismal scar on the city's more opulent appearace. The condition of this particular building was a fairly good representation of the district as a whole: Walls peeling off in the heat like sunburned skin, a dull, yet potent smell of cabbage and oysters that crept through everay hallway, smoke alarms that don't work and squealing stairs; scorch marks from molotov cocktails and hand grenades created rather ornate patters across what would have been a more mundane stretch of wall. Much of the area was in a similar condition, but this building was one of the worst hit in the area. A real bomb magnet from the conflict. It was rumored that some DLs had hidden here during the fighting, and that there were still active bombs stashed away beneath the floorboards. That rumor was sufficient to keep demand for housing at this particular establishment low, and the rent subsequently lower.
But one man's trash is another man's treasure, or so they say. The building wasn't as worn-down as the exterior would lead some to believe. While the rotting wooden staircase, crumbling drywall, and the unusual, persistent smell might turn away more well-off tenants, there was sufficient demand from the homeless to fill the gap. It was the history surrounding the area that made people really avoid it. As it turns out this was the very section of the city where the conflict occurred.
B-District: to some, a wound just starting to heal, the pain gone, but the scar a constant reminder of the pain. To others, a more gruesome depiction of the city's overall decay.
10:02am. Way too early for an alarm to go off, in Flint's opinion, especially after you were up until 4:30 playing poker and getting drunk. He grimaced with every nauseating chirp that rang through his ears, like someone was smacking him upside the face, laughing like they had just had their vocal chords removed and didn't quite know it yet. Flint slowly opened one eye. The mid-morning light blinded him for a brief moment, but soon he was able to spot the perpetrator. It was that damn electronic clock that Flame had bought a few months ago. Neither of them knew how to operate technology very well, and one day Flame accidentally set the alarm to go off at 10:02 every morning.
No one knew how to turn it off.
It was about three yards away, perched conveniently on top of the kitchen counter, next to a week-old empty bag of potato chips and an empty beer bottle, remnants of a midnight snack from days of old. Frantically, Flint searched the vicinity for something to shut the thing up.
He couldn't quite remember why he was lying on the couch, but assumed it had something to do with the almost empty bottle of whiskey he had clenched in his right hand. He could throw that, but then he'd have to deal with a load of glass all over the tile floor of the kitchen. No, not this early in the morning, and not with this kind of hangover.
Flint groaned as he rubbed his head. It felt like someone was slowly running a tank over his head, while the clock watched and cackled like a sick hyena. He shut his eyes tight to try and block out the pain and frantically moved his hands around the couch. Finally, he stumbled upon a 9mm Beretta, gripped it in his left hand, and with an emphatic grunt tossed it across the room. It wasn't until it was halfway to its target that Flint finally realized how outrageously stupid that maneuver was. Quickly, he rolled off the couch, hit the ground with a grunt and covered his head with his hands, expecting the gun to go off on impact. He heard the two objects collide, a smash, and then pristene silence.
He sighed with relief, "This is a great way to start the day."
He got up and dusted himself off. The living room he had collapsed in looked like it hadn't been cleaned in a week. Flint knew it was more like eight days, so he took that as a compliment. There was an onlive green two-person couch in the middle of a room facing a TV that got one channel on a good day. Flint wasn't sure if that was because the electricity to B-District was routinely cut to power the rest of the city, or because he never paid for cable in the first place. Either way, it served as a nice table. As he shuffled towards the kitchen in a pair of dirty jeans, kicking away take-out boxes and old newspapers along the way, he spotted the clock lying on the cold tile floor, unplugged and in a half dozen pieces, and couldn't help but smile. The beretta was lying next to it. He picked it up, made sure the safety was on, and then set it down on the kitchen counter next to the sink.
Another burst of pain gripped him tightly, the alcohol having a field day destroying the mysterious inner workings of his nervous system. Flint gripped his forehead. He thought he'd be used to hangovers by this point. Slowly, he made his way farther into the apartment towards the bedroom, carefully pushed open the door and peeked inside. Sure enough, he saw some light green fur peeking out from behind the covers. Flame, his longtime partner in crime, had left the weekly poker game early and must have grabbed the bed as soon as he had gotten home. Flint quietly made his way towards the bathroom on the opposite wall, avoiding anything that could make any noise. This room was significantly cleaner than the rest of the apartment, but a few empty cans and other potential troublemakers had found their final resting place this far into the house. Flint could only imagine why.
As soon as he was in the bathroom (inconveniently attached to the only bedroom), he gingerly closed the door and headed for the medicine cabinet located behind the mirror. He grimaced as he scanned the contents for some pain-killers, only finding some bandages, cough medicine, a .45 automatic, a box of ammo, and some laxatives left over from that April Fools prank. He closed the cabinet hard in frustration, and took a look at himself in the mirror.
He wasn't in too bad of shape, considering his line of work. A few scars were pockmarcked across his light-blue fur from various knife and gunshot wounds. There was a dark blue streak of fur across his head that stretched all the way to the back, broke off, and then darted slimly down each of his locks. It was a distinct series of marks that everyone seemed to find very attractive. They only reminded him of his father.
"Damn," he scowled, "I'm starting to look just like him." He traced the dark fur with his fingers, starting just above his eyes and going all the way down his locks. Sometimtes heredity leaves the deepest scars, he thought, as he stared at the mirror image of his father that softly gazed back at him from behind the glass. "If only you could see me now," he thought, "and see how messed up I've become."
The throbbing pain in his skull returned to thrust him back into reality. He needed to go get something for his hangover, and fast. He exited the bathroom to find Flame sitting upright, the bedsheets covering his lower body just enough so Flint knew he hadn't worn anything to bed. He had to admit, it was kind of cute seeing him like this, drowsily rubbing the sleep from his eye, his fur seemingly glowing in the mid-morning light that came through the bedroom window. The steel-plated goggles that he had worn for as long as Flint had known him were resting just above his hazel eyes, pushing some of his fur up with them.
"Morning," Flint said, struggling to smile and ignore the throbbing pain in his head, "I hope I didn't wake you."
Flame rested an arm on one knee and let out a yawn. "Nah, it's okay. I should've been up earlier." He was still pretty drowsy, but managed to crack a polite smile. "I would've thought you'd still be asleep, though. What happened?"
"That damned alarm clock went off again."
"You broke it, didn't you."
"With my Beretta."
Flame frowned. "I don't wanna know any more than that." He turned to face away from Flint and dangled his feet off the bed, picking up a pair of jeans lying on the floor and slipping them on. Flint watched silently. Both of them shared wardrobes, since money was hard to come by. But since they both had a realitively similar build, so it wasn't too much of a discomfort.
Flint waited until his partner was standing. "We need to get some pain-killers."
"We're all out?" Flame replied, with fake enthusiasm. "We're also out of food, in case you didn't notice."
He hadn't, although at the mention of food, he suddenly felt very hungry.
"Why don't you stop over at the square and pick up some of both?"
Damn it. Flint saw this one coming a mile away. He started to object, but Flame was already dressed and out the door before a single word came out of his mouth. He had always found something about Flame's behavior regarding the square perculiar, and had managed to inquire about his unwillingness to travel much farther than the borders of B-District only once a few months ago over a light meal. Flame had refused to reply with anything more than "I just don't like going there." As if Flint didn't.
Flint quickly grabbed a plain brown shirt that was draped over one of the bedposts and slipped it on, then reached behind the bedroom door and grabbed a pair of black boots. As he sat down on the edge of the bed to slip them onto his feet, his mind began to wander back in time, to try and latch onto a particular moment that would shed a more definitive light on Flame's perculiar habits. In the two years Flint had known him, from the time he found him alone and wretched behind a bombed out residential block, and through their time as partners, Flame had never exposed nor had Flint ever discovered any glaring reason for his behavior.
He tied two knots on each boot and stuffed the loose shoelaces into the side. They fit a bit too snugly; Flint was going to have to buy a new pair soon. On his way past the kitchen, he stopped for a moment to think. There was something he was about to forget to bring with him, and he knew it. His sudden interest in Flame had caused his memory to slowly slip through his fingers. Now confused and frustrated with this most recent turn of events, Flint decided that his best option of avoiding insanity would be to leave as soon as possible. He briskly made his way towards the coat hanger that sat adjacent to the front door. On it was his favorite black leather jacket, the kind with the unusually placed zippers and metal loops that served no immediate purpose. Flint liked it because it made hiding his money easier. Bottom left pocket, just above his tail. He reached in and pulled out a few bills. Maybe this would be enough to get everything he wanted. He stuffed the cash back in his pocket and quickly slipped the jacket onto his back.
Keys in the right chest pocket. In one swift motion, Flint opened the door, slid out, and shut it behind him, removing the key ring from his jacket and inserting a bronze-colored one into the door handle. After that, he switched to the next key on the ring; this one was smaller and fit the bolt lock just under the door handle perfectly. Next one; the larger bolt that he and Flame had splurged for after their apartment was broken into by some adolescent thugs. All they took were some beers, but Flint managed to hunt them down all the same. It was the principle of the matter.
Locked up like a safe. Flint returned the key ring to its designated pocket, gave it a quick pat and made his way towards the stairs. The inside of the flat wasn't as dilapidated as the outside was. Some of the wallpaper was peeling at the corners, but overall it rivaled some of the finer low-income establishments in the more classy parts of the city. Every third wooden board on the floor creaked for some reason, niether he nor Flame could figure out why. They simply learned to avoid them. It was like a game of hopscotch trying to get down the hall. The stairs were even worse, although Flint assumed that was to dissuade would-be theives from sneaking in and hassling any of the other patrons. He had always figured the landlord would have invested in something a bit more practical, like a firearm, but then again he never really saw the landlord anymore. It didn't seem like anyone would really be interested in stealing from this crap-hole, but better safe than sorry, Flint supposed.
Down three flights of stairs and out the front door into a burst of warm air. It was a crisp Summer morning; only a few lonely clouds attempted in vain to conceal the brilliant blue sky. Some birds chirped a soft melody as they flew towards the square, adding a hint of music to almost perfect weather.
Flint thought it was sickening. Luckily it was rained for a few days before this, and the ground was still a bit wet as a result, a small glimmer of mediocrity to shatter the perfection. Flint loved it when it rained, mainly because it made most everyone depressed but him. It was the only time he could go outside and just be alone. But now it seemed like everyone in B-District was out.
He started making his way towards the town square, passing by some perculiar characters along the way. B-District was renowned for its colorful population, and while Flint's appearance was certain to attract attention once he got to the square, in this part of town he was pretty plain. He passed by a couple of teenage vulpines smoking cigarettes by a broken streetlight; one of them had more piercings than Flint could count in the few seconds the kit was in his vision. They monitored him with guarded curiosity as he passed by, either because they thought he was an undercover soldier or his reputation preceded him. Either way, he just stuffed his hands in his jacket pockets and walked right by, paying careful attention to not make eye contact with any of them. He wasn't interested in starting a fight right now, but maybe on the way back after the painkillers had kicked in. He was pretty sure one of them had swore at him as he passed, asked for a brutal lesson in manners. Flint would have to administer the curriculum later.
Most of the citizens in B-District kept to themselves unless they had a bone to pick with someone. Across the street, a group of thugs had just pushed a man to the ground and were digging into him with their steel-toed shoes. In this neighborhood, you didn't try to play hero; you just looked the other way and kept walking. It was about a half a mile to the town square, but it would seem a lot longer if you had to get their with both your legs beaten to hell. So Flint made his way to the square swiftly and silently, keeping the eyes forward and the pace moderate. He was almost certain that his current reputation as a badass would deter any would-be assailants, but Flint preferred to play it safe, taking a short glance over his shoulder every few minutes to spot any suspicious behavior. Flint managed to make it all the way to the square without a scuffle, breathing a sigh of relief and beginning to wonder if this day might actually turn out to be a good one, despite the horrible weather and thatdamned alarm clock.
Walking between B-District and the town square was like walking between two different worlds. Everything B-District wasn't, the square was: clean and ornate, awe-inspiring high-rises in the distance and elegant fountains created a brilliant cascade of art and architecture. Thousands of citizens passed through this area every day, making it a hot-spot for store owners to try and set up shop. Everywhere you went, someone was trying to sell you something, shoving some new item in your face, telling you how you couldn't possibly live a decent life without it. You could get anything you wanted in the square, for a price. Food, drink, entertainment, anything your perverted little heart could coalesce. Businessmen, politicians, middle-class citizens, almost every walk of life was present, filling the atmosphere with a constant energy that kept the square alive all through the night. It was the apex of their civilization, a consistent and self-sufficient capitalist machine.
Most of the citizens in the square kept to themselves unless they had a bone to pick with someone. Across the way, a group of men in sharply-pressed suits were arguing with a manager about the quality of their meal. In this neighborhood, you didn't try to make sense out of the nonsensical; you just looked the other way and kept walking.
"Bastards should feel lucky that they even have food," Flint swore under his breath. These kinds of people made him sick, but it was their nauseating lifestyle that made sure he and Flame always had work. A necesarry evil, Flint assumed.
He spied the shop he was looking for over the heads of the crowd, about thirty yards away. Flint pushed through them as best he could, receiving unusal stares and the occasioanal insult as he struggled against the flow of this free-market river. Every time he touched a suit, he felt sick, with every cruse he nearly snapped. Everything about this place made him crazy, and he wondered if this was why Flame insisted on never setting foot here. A minute passed like an eternity, the hands of time seemingly taking a cigarette break every three seconds to light one up and watch him suffer, until he finally arrived at the front door of the General Store.
A small bell announced his enterance as he slid through the door, catching the attention of the store owner, Laura-Le. She was a small, petit young woman in her early twenties. Light purple fur, piercing blue eyes, and a very attractive smile. But depite her innocent appearance, Laura was a force to be reckoned with. A few months ago, she had complained about a group of young boys who hung around her store, harassing customers, making cat calls, just being jackasses. Flint had offered to help deal with them, but she had respesctfully declined. Three days later, they tried to make a pass on her, and the hospital had three new patients. She was strong and extremely tempermental, but as long as you were polite and didn't try to get in her pants, she was great.
Her face beamed when she saw Flint enter her store. "Flint!" she exclaimed in a hospitable tone, "How are you?"
Flint smiled. Laura was always in a good mood, it seemed. "Not too bad, I suppose. You?"
Some of the joy seemed to fade from her expression. "Could be better. Business is a little slow these days."
"Why is that?" Flint said, taking up a position on the other side of the counter.
She raised her left arm to reveal a small metal bracelet. These were tracking and information devices employed by the EST to track subjects of the program, a sort of lax probation they often implemented for the more well-behaved.. If you were under their supervision and turned out to be an upright member of society, they would sometimes trust you enough to not track your every movement, opting instead to check up on you every couple of days. Laura had been so good that the EST had let her run this shop after the store owner passed away, stopping by only once every few weeks. Now, something had drastically changed.
Flint laughed. "I didn't know you were on the program's naughty list, Laura-Le!"
She frowned, "As it turns out, those punks that used to hang out in front of the shop reported me to the EST after they recovered. About five days ago a couple of soldiers came in and slapped this thing on my wrist," she shook her arm, letting the smooth bracelet slide across it, "It's a real pain when I'm trying to take a shower."
For a split second, Flint imagined Laura taking a shower. Sometimes jewelry had all the fun.
"So now no one wants to shop at a place run by the DL, right?"
Laura nodded, "It sucks, but there isn't much I can really do. If I manage to remove the bracelet, I'll get arrested. Besides, I kind of like the solitude." She laughed, but Flint could tell she was still troubled by the ordeal. "But hey, that's enough about my woes. What about you? Business must be booming now."
Flint shook his head, "Haven't had a major call-up in months."
She seemed shocked, "That's odd. Rumor has it the EST is upping their contract count soon," she motioned for Flint to lean in closer, "and this has yet to be confirmed, but I heard from a fairly reliable source that a group is planning some big shit really soon."
He raised an eyebrow, "Well I haven't heard anything about that."
"That's too bad," she said, trying to be as sympathetic as possible, "if I hear about anything up for grabs, I'll let you know, free of charge. How's that sound?"
"Gee, thanks a lot," Flint replied with as much sarcasm as he could muster as he turned and began making his way down the aisles. Laura's presense was a pleasant distraction, but he had to try and concentrate on the task at hand. Money was tight, so it was important to stick only to the essentials: bread, cheese, some meats, potato chips. Flint headed to the refridgerator in the back of the store and pulled out a 12-pack of brews. This could last us for most of the week, Flint thought to himself, as he clumsily carried his purchase to the register.
"You know," Laura suggested as he stumbled to recover his grip on his purchases, "We do have baskets to make that sort of thing easier." She motioned towards to door where Flint had first entered. Sure enough, about a dozen red baskets were stacked directly adjacent to where Flint had been standing only a moment before. He shrugged and dumped his groceries onto the counter, pulling the cash out of his jacket as Laura rang up the items.
"Oh, I almost forgot!" Flint took a quick look back across the aisles, "You still sell painkillers, right?"
"Third aisle on the right." She smiled and pointed at a small section of various generic medicines. Flint quickly grabbed a small pack of tablets from the third row and slapped them down next to the rest of his items, which Laura had already begun stuffing into brown paper bags. She punched in the serial number on the side of the pack and then dropped it into one of the other bags.
"Ok, your total comes to…"
Flint flipped through the bills he had in his pocket. Once. Twice. Three times. A look of frustration and embarassment creeped across his face as he tried to maintain his composure. The last person he wanted to come across as weak to was Laura.
"I, uh, I don't seem to have enough money." Laura put out her hand, and Flint reluctantly placed the money in it. She started to silently count it. "Like I said, you know, times have been pretty tough, what with no contracts, and all, so, uh…"
There was a chime and the cash drawer below the register slid open, revealing a very modest amount of cash, even for Flint. Laura silently put the bills inside and pressed it shut.
Flint started to blush, "Look, you don't need to do that."
"No, I don't," Laura replied, flashing her signature smile, "But I am."
A small glimmer of perfection to shatter the mediocrity.
Flint returned the smile and grabbed a bag under each arm. As he headed out the door, he turned and thanked Laura again. A small bell announced his exit.
In the square it was business as usual. Just a few yards down a man had set up a cart and was selling fresh produce. There was a crowd of people surrounding him, handing him cash from every direction. The man laughed out loud in a friendly, polite manner as he distributed his wares. Laura was right, no one was interested in buying from an ex-DL soldier. Spotting a small wooden bench next to him, Flint decided to take a quick break before plunging back into the fray. He took a seat, placing the grocery bags on either side of his feet and leaning as far back into the bench as he could, the wooden boards creaking noisily under his weight like the ones back at B-District. The familiar sound gave him a small semblence of comfort to offset an otherwise heart-shattering scene. The feeling became more noticable as Laura-Le exited the store and spotted him sitting alone. With a smile she sat down next to him. Flint hadn't noticed the dull blue worker's apron she had on over her clothes until now, as she searched the few pockets it contained for some mysterious object.
"Shouldn't you be watching the store?" Flint inquired, trying desperately to avoid staring at her magnificent figure.
Laura was too busy patting down her apron to notice. "Yea, probably," she said with a hint of aggrivation, finally concluding her search with a frustrated sigh, "But, as you saw, no one's really shopping here anymore. Dammit." She looked up at Flint, who immediately made eye contact with her. "You wouldn't happen to have a pack on you, would you?"
He shook his head, "I don't smoke. You know that."
"Yea," she said with a smirk, "Figures. You drink, you get in fights, you nearly get yourself killed at least once a week, but the one thing you don't do is smoke," she chuckled, "I just don't get you sometimes, Flint."
Their conversation went dry a moment later, both of them turning silently to watch the crowds press by in a frenzied rush to get nowhere. Flint didn't mind the awkward silences, he just enjoyed the company. The only time he and Flame were ever together was at poker games or while they were working contracts, but there really wasn't much time for serious conversation when you're getting shot at or trying to act nonchalant while holding a straight flush. Thus, Laura-Le proved a more stable companion most of the time.
"So what's it like on the outside?"
Flint turned, Laura watching him silently for an asnwer, her soft expression hinting at a hidden sense of dissatisfaction. Flint couldn't blame her, not when she looked so innocent.
"What do you mean?"
Laura turned back towards the crowd, "Like these people. Free to do whatever you want without someone breathing down your neck, waiting for you to screw up."
"Is it really that bad?" Flint replied, his eye catching another glimpse of her bracelet. Laura followed his glance towards it and tapped it with her finger.
"No, I suppose not," she replied heavily, "It's unsettling having to live every day knowing someone's monitoring your every move, though."
Flint was silent for a moment; the idea did seem unnerving to him. He tried to comfort her all the same.
"Well, if you don't have anything to hide-"
"Everyone has something to hide, Flint," Laura cut him off, "There's always something you try to keep tucked away from evryone else. It's what makes us unique."
"Maybe you're right," Flint conceded. There was no use arguing against her in this situation.
Suddenly, Flint felt an inexplicable wrenching in the pit of his stomach; Laura's words had unnecessarily struck a tone with his conscience.
"My father..." Flint hesitated, Laura turning back towards him with a look of naive interest.
Flint started again, but a voice in the back of his mind was screaming for him to stop before he made himself look like an idiot.
"...my...father..."
"Oh, shit."
Flint was jolted from his unpleasant memories as Laura redirected her attention towards a small group of vulpines sporting matching navy blue jackets and hats making their way towards them. Instantly Flint recognized them as the same group he had passed while making his way to the square, although their new uniforms remained a source of mystery.
"Are these the same guys from before?" Flint inquired.
Laura nodded, "Back to try and regain some dignity, I suppose. Dor't worry, I'll handle-"
Flint stood silently and began to make his way towards the group, leaving Laura-Le a little surprised at his sudden boldness. He confronted them a few yards away from Laura's store. A black vulpine with dull green eyes and a pompous demeanor stepped out in front of the group, apprantly the leader, his numerous ear piercings emitting a white glow in the rising mid-day sun.
"Can I help you gentlemen with something?" Flint stated bluntly, fitting his hands into his jacket pockets.
"Yea," the black fox said, his voice high and harsh like nails on a chalkboard, "You can start by gettin' the hellouta' my way!" His two comrades snickered, apparantly finding his comment oddly amusing. The boy started to make his way around Flint, who placed his palm on the young fox's chest and forcefully pushed him back to his original place next to his uniformed companions.
"I didn't say you could leave yet," Flint spoke with a calm, controlled tone. "My good friend over there tells me you guys have been a little disruptive."
"So?" the vupine spat irreverently, his words dripping with malice, "What are you gonna do about it?"
Flint grinned, "I'm going to give you five seconds to turn around and never come back here agian."
The uniformed trio laughed in unison at his apprantly unbelievable request. He could tell these guys hadn't had much in the way of discipline; this was going to be their lucky day.
"Old man," the young vulpine said between laughs, "You have no idea what you've gotten yourself into."
Without a moment's hesitation, the young fox balled his right hand and threw a puch at Flint's nose. Instinctively, Flint tiled his head to one side, avoiding the young fox's attack and silmultaneously grabbing the boy's fist in his hand. Flint smiled with smug satisfaction at the young kit's sudden surprise, and in one swift motion twisted the boy's arm and kicked one of his feet out from under him, causing him to fall hard onto the concrete. At once, Flint pinned the boy's right arm behind his back with his knee and pulled his left arm out above his head, the young vulpine and his friends still stunned from the speed of his maneuver. Like most young thugs, he was slow on the draw, a fatal weakness in most cases. Flint bent down so he was face to face with the grounded vulpine, his tone much more forceful.
"I'm going to tell you one more time: you've got five seconds to walk away and promise to never come back here andmess with my friends again." He wrapped his hand around the young kit's left index finger and squeezed it slightly upward, the boy letting out a small whimper of pain.
"Guys," the young fox pleaded, "Help me out, here!"
Flint looked towards the two remaining thugs, who seemed to freeze solid as he glared menacingly at them. "I guess we're not sure exactly what 'five seconds' means. Allow me to demonstrate." He looked back at his new hostage. "You're going to help me out here for a bit. You know how to count, right?" He didn't wait for an answer. "Good, now count with me: one!"
With a quick tug, he snapped the young fox's finger out of its joint, producing a sharp popping sound a harsh squeal of pain. He could feel the kit starting to struggle, but his knee was positioned so the young boy's mobility was severely impared. His comrades' mobility seemed to be in a similar state as they watched, horrified.
"I can't hear you counting!" Flint growled at the pinned vulpine.
"...one," the young fox whimpered, his face unnaturally twisted in agony as tears started to well up in his eyes.
"You ready to leave yet, or do I have to count all the way to five!" The young fox shook his head, his teeth clenched too tight to speak. Flint removed his knee from the boy's back, freeing his right arm in the process. The boy quickly gripped his broken hand and started to get back up.
"Leave!" Flint yelled, ushering the boy's to pick up the pace. Immeidately, they began to push through the small crowd that had formed around the group, back towards B-District. Flint hadn't noticed exactly how much of a scene he had made, two dozen faces studying him in hostile silence. What did he care what they thought? He shot a sharp glare across few of them and then pushed back towards Laura, who was holding back a fit of laughter, which made Flint feel a little more at ease.
"At least one person here isn't insane," Flint reasoned aloud as he sat back down next to her.
"I think you just surprised a few people," Laura replied, quickly regaining her composure, "These people aren't used to seeing that kind of violence around here."
"Yea, wouldn't they just love to tune all that noise out," Flint said matter-of-factly, watching the crowd disperse, "I guess reality's just a little too real for some people." There was another brief moment of awkward silence. "Hey, do you have a phone?"
"Yea, there's one in the store," Laura replied with interest, "You need to call someone?"
"I just wanna call in and tell Flame what's goin on," Flint said, following Laura back into the store, "I wouldn't be surprised if we got a visit from these guys at my place, I just want him to be prepared."
She led him into a storage room located behind the counter. A black phone was perched on the wall just inside, behind a mop and bucket. Flint picked up the reciever and quickly dialed in his home number.He was startledwhen someone waspresent to pick it up.
"Yea?" It was Flame.
"Flame?" Flint said, startled, "You're home?"
"Yea." He sounded a bit on edge.
"Is something the matter?"
"Not exactly," Flame replied, his tone becoming slightly more joyful, "There's a letter here from EST HQ."