There was a presence hovering just next to him. He could sense it without seeing it, with a kind of omniscient awareness that he found himself suddenly endowed with. Slowly, a paralyzing fear began to creep over him. Without noise, without motion, Flame desperately tried to assess the situation. Lying silently in his bed, he was completely exposed, unable to defend himself against any attack this presence might decide to inflict upon him. Slowly, Flame opened his eyes and turned his head, expecting the barrel of a gun to be staring back at him with a sinister sense of satisfaction; a crack of laughter, a spit of flame and blood, and the darkness would turn to infinity. Somehow the idea of dying was most terrifying only when one knew it was about to occur under unpleasant circumstances.
"Oh, Flint," Flame said with more relieved enthusiasm than he had first intended to produce. It was comforting to see his partner perched at his side, even if it was his presence that had caused Flame's discomfort in the first place. Flint smiled, his calm, brown eyes soothing his nerves.
"I didn't mean to scare you," he said softly, his gaze never leaving Flame's. His demeanor began to make Flame more uneasy, his heartbeat becoming a deafening roar against Flint's calm voice.
"What are you doing here, anyway?" Flame replied with a hint of shaking concern, losing himself for a moment as he gazed into Flint's eyes for an unintentionally long time. Flint didn't seem to notice; he didn't seem to care. In fact, he returned Flame's affection with a similar transfixing of the eyes.
"I'm here to thank you."
Flame propped himself up on the bed with his elbows. A sudden splash of emotions, of fear and anticipation, came over him as he suddenly sensed the desire in Flint's stare. He struggled to breath as Flint leaded forward, his eyes unwavering and revealing an emotion that trasnscended simple lust. No, Flame sensed a more profound and meaningful attraction as he felt a palm slowly press against his chest. He began to lose himself in the moment, Flint's muzzle so close he could feel Flint's quickening breath against his face. Flame let one of his arms slide around Flint's waist, bringing his partner's body closer to his own. Flint paused, his lips so close to Flame's that he could almost taste them, and in a soft, comforting tone, Flame spoke to his partner.
"I'm sorry it had to be like this."
There was a deafening crack, like thunder had struck only a few feet away from them. Flint's eyes widened, as if Flame's presence had suddenly filled him with indescribable terror, and suddenly his forehead burst forward in a cascade of blood and bits of bone. Flame yelped in shock, Flint's body falling limp against his chest, the blood creeping into his fur. As he stared, horrified, he felt a warm gun barrel press against the side of his head; another deafening crack awoke him from his sleep.
He thrust himself up, a cold sweat forming on his fur. A quick, panicky glance around the room revealed no abnormailities, and Flame was able to breathe a slight sigh of relief. This wasn't the first time he had had dreams like this. They were becoming more frequent and disturbing, like a dull, throbbing pain in his head that he couldn't get rid of. He pressed his hand against his eyes, trying to block out the visions of Flint's lifeless body draped over his, but the memories flooded back into his mind the more he tried to forget them.
The bathroom door opened. Flint seemed a bit startled to see Flame out of bed. He had no idea why.
"Morning," Flint said, flashing the same smile that he had in the dream. Such a beautiful smile. "Hope I didn't wake you."
Flame yawned and moved his hand to wipe away a small tear that was forming in his eye. "Nah, it's okay, I should've been up earlier." He tried desperately to return Flint's 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."
Great, something else that needed replacing. "I don't wanna know any more than that," Flame replied with a frown, turning to dangle his feet off the side of the bed. He could feel Flint's eyes roam across his back, making him blush. Luckily, Flint wasn't able to see it. He slipped on the same pair of jeans he had worn last night and stood up to search for his shirt amongst the trash.
"We need to get some pain-killers."
"No, you need to stop drinking so much." Yea, that's what Flame was about to say, until he remembered that getting pain-killers meant going to the square. Suddenly another string of bad memories rushed into his mind.
…a warm Summer day without a care in the world…
"We're all out?" He inquired, "We're also out of food, in case you didn't notice. Why don't you stop over at the square and pick up some of both?"
He didn't wait for a response. This sudden bombardment of recurring nightmares that played out in his head was becoming too overwhelming, and any visit to the square would only make the situation worse. He found his shirt and slipped it on, making his way out of the bedroom and towards the door with quickening strides. A pang of guilt struck him as he began to slide his brown jacket over his shoulders, that somehow he was making the situation worse by simply avoiding it every time it arose. But he needed to clear his head, maybe take a quick walk in the fresh air to analyze the situation more rationally. It seemed reasonable enough, but a small, harsh voice prodded his conscience, encouraging an alternative plan of action, a more direct solution. Flame knew what that entailed well enough, that knowledge aiding in his decision to get the hell out of his aprartment. Away from Flint, away from home, away from all of the demons of the past.
It was a nice enough day outside, maybe a bit warmer than Flame would've hoped. And yet there was a certain comfort to the heat, a warm, soothing embrace that worked to ease his troubled mind as he made his way through B-District. Stuffing his hands in his jacket pockets, he let his mind wander for a minute or two, soaking up the richness of his surroundings. He felt there was a hidden pleasantness to this district. Some people didn't see it; he knew Flint didn't, and yet he didn't quite expect him to. Something about Flint's mannerisms revealed his stark pessimism; the way he lived, the way he worked, all of them hinted at a character built on tragedy and decay. His eyes so sharp and full of anger, and at the same time fragile and wavering, unsteady in their conviction.
Flame could still recall how Flint had watched him in his dream. Why had Flint appeared so docile? He felt flushed as he remembered the longing in Flint's eyes, the helplessness in his demeanor that seemed to cry out for comfort like an wounded animal. His slow, deliberate moves, closer and closer until they were face to face, Flint's hand pressed firmly against his chest. And then, death. Painfully, Flame thought back to when these dreams began to occur. Sometime around their last contract, when Flint escaped death by three millimeters after taking a bullet to the chest. Falme remembered how the gruesome reality of death had swiftly tore away at his pride as he watched his partner, his friend, struggle to survive in a hospital bed.
There's nothing quite as terrifying as seeing someone you admire, someone you percieved as invincible, so weak and in so much pain. Your whole world seems to collapse around you.
Flame froze in his tracks, a pang of bitter emotions surging through him as he slowly analyzed his surroundings. While his mind was day-dreaming, his body had walked a firm path directly towards the location that he had made his life's goal to avoid. His eyes transfixed on the dilapidated constructs, the half-standing walls and rigid shards of broken glass evoking memories of those last few days of happiness that seemed to him like a shadow. No matter how hard he tried to erase them from his memory they had always managed to return. He took a few cautious steps backwards, stopping next to a damp alleyway scattered with assorted refuse. The smell of stagnant water and mold pierced at his nostrils as he turned and took one hesitant step into the alley. The voices in his head began to scream, reasoning with him to just turn and walk away, but he felt compelled to revisit this morbid site, this crimson mark that had permanently stained his existence. He eyed the spot where he had sat two years ago, pressing a revolver to his skull, face streaked with tears, his last remaining effects clenched tightly against his chest, and wondered if he had ever felt more helpless than he had at that moment.
It was Flint who had saved him that day, stumbled across him just as he was about to paint the wall red. Somehow he had managed to coax Flame out of suicide, dusted him off and gave him a place to stay; a place to call home. Was that why Flame felt so attracted to him? Had Flint's unimposing generosity created these romantic feelings? Flame had never tried to answer those questions. He saw no point in attempting to decipher something as bitterly complex as love and affection. You could walk a thousand miles in a lifetime and still end up going nowhere.
After a few minutes of reflective silence, Flame decided to make his way back home. For some perculiar reason, this haphazard visit into his dark and dreary past had catapulted him out of his slump, leaving his mind free to dwell on more urgent matters. It was no lie that work was becoming harder and harder to come by. As the EST started to clamp down on their subjects, tightening restrictions and boosting enlistment quotas, there had become less and less of a need for people in Flame's line of work. But that's not to say there was never a need, it just wasn't as urgent. Over the last few months, the contract count had been declining steadily, leaving Flint and himself in a financial rut, so to speak. As he made his way up the three flights of stairs towards his apartment, every third board shouting under his weight, he began to wonder if it was time for a career change.
He unlocked the bolts on the apartment's front door and pushed it open, a perculiar grinding sound catching his attention. A cautious step into the living room revealed that a medium-sized white envelope had been neatly stuffed under the front door while he and Flint were away. Bending down to inspect the parcel, Flame's eyes widened in the same way a young child's would if it happened upon candy land itself. He had to re-read the first line of the return address, assuming that his eyes had decieved him the first time.
Leonard Winterfield, E.S.T. HQThe name itself bore a distinct aura of prestige. Leonard Winterfield was a Constable at EST HQ, just a short step down from the head of the entire HQ, Constable Remmington. As head of SIRI, the Soldier Intergration and Relocation Initiative more commonly referred to simply as "the project," his name was also synonomous with the conflict as a whole, as one of the head designers of the EST's strategies. He was one of their shining young leaders at 24, maroon fur, a handsone physique, and a pair of commanding green eyes; an example to be strictly followed if you were in the EST.
With a certain amount of disbelief, Flame picked up the envelope and inspected the outside for preforations or breaks in the seal. To receive something from the Constable himself was slightly unusual, as most correspondence came through either his personal secretary or the HQ front office. After dropping the unopened envelope on the kitchen counter and opening the refridgerator to grab a beer, Flame took a seat on the living room couch and began to wonder what the letter meant. No doubt it would be a summon for Flint and himself to see the Constable ASAP, but for what purpose? Flame couldn't recall any incident where their work had caused any serious media scrutiny, nor did he think that any of their previous jobs had been worthy of any sort of exempliary praise. No, this was something big, it had to be. Why else would Winterfield send it himself? Flame chuckled at his sudden good fortune, letting the crisp, cool alcohol dull his nerves and amplify his euphoria.
He was in the height of the moment when the telephone rang. He got up, scratching an itch that had suddenly arose on his stomach and made his way towards the telephone ringing atop the kitchen counter under an old newspaper. He placed his beer next to it and picked up the reciever.
"Yea?"
"Flame? You're home?" It was Flint, his voice firm with a hint of aggrivation.
"Yea."
There was a short pause. "Is something the matter?"
Flame smiled, "Not exactly." He went silent, deciding to mess with Flint's head for a while before continuting. "There's a letter here from EST HQ."
Another, more porfound silence. "Flame, don't scare me like that."
He laughed. "It get's better. Guess whose name I found on the return address." He didn't even wait for Flint to respond, the information was out of his mouth before he even planned to speak. "Constable Leonard Winterfield."
"Bullshit!"
Flame could hear another, more feminine voice in the background, prodding Flint to divulge the details of their conversation. It must have been Laura-Le, as that was the only female he had ever seen Flame come in contact with, let alone speak to.
"Leonard Winterfield!""I kid you not," Flame replied matter-of-factly.
"Did you open it yet?""No, I planned on waiting until you got home first."
"I'll be over there in about five minutes." There was sudden click as Flint hurriedly hung up. In no less than four minutes, Flint's body seemed to be hurled through the door by some unknown force, his face flushed and his lungs gasping for air, a small rim of sweat gleaming off the neck of his t-shirt. He quickly scanned the room, his mind too acutely focused on this mystery envelope for him to even notice Flame's presence near him. Once he spotted the correspondence, he rushed towards it in the same manner as someone who had just revisited their lover for the first time in twenty years. With unsteady hands he set the grocery bags down and began to rip open the envelope. Flame snorted in aggrivation at his partner's unnatural obsession and began taking the groceries out of the bag, organizing them neatly in the fridge. He had the upper half of his body submerged in that icy environment as Flint spoke, seeming slightly less enthusiastic than he had been on the phone a few mintes ago.
"It just says we have to show up at the reception desk by 1300 hours." He slapped the paper with one hand, as if to punish it for getting his hopes up. Flame laughed as he grabbed his beer from the counter and took up a position by Flint's side, taking a glance at the note. The smell of Flint's presence as he peered over his partner's shoulder flustered him slightly, causing him to recall portions of his nightmares. They fluttered across his mind like ashes from a smoldering building, a painful reminder of a horrible past. He did his best not to show his inner turmoil, taking a quick swig of alcohol to try and drown out the screams that tore at him from inside his head.
"We should probably get going, then," Flame said, keeping close to his partner even after the letter had been tossed aside.
Flint eyed the beer in his hand. "I thought I had the last one," Flint snorted with irritated curiosity. Flame grinned in response and motioned towards the door with his free hand.
"Shall we?"
EST HQ: a series of office buildings, dormitories, and firing ranges just north of the square, a large, imposing collection of constructs that seemed to stand watch over the city like a patient sheperd tending to his flock, or one of those large statues of prominent historical figures, their battle-hardened, determined eyes gazing watchfully over the citizens as they passed. Despite the numerous times the two had been summoned to this place, each visit seemed to bring with it a gut-wrenching nervousness, like you weren't holy enough to be in its presence. The strong, double-paned glass doors slid open as they cmae close, a burst of cool air washing over them as if to cleanse them of the filth that they possessed from being in contact with the civilian world. Inside, the main lobby was spacious yet overbearing, as most military installations tend to be. From the walls hung various recruitment posters depicting tall, statuesque soldiers in crisp, green uniforms standing at attention, eyes fixated on some unknown object in the distance, coupled with a catchy slogan that seemed to motivate one to immediately enlist. Overall, the area had a too-clean feeling like a doctor's office, the kind of uneasy tension that made the hair on the back of your neck stand on end as you entered.
The two made their way towards the front desk that jutted out of the far wall. Behind it, two attractive young civilian women dressed in cleanly pressed businesswear worked with unnatural fervor. Flint stepped up to the counter and slapped the letter down on the desk, careful to make as much noise as possible, shocking the young women out of their trance. The one closest to Flint flashed a courteous smile at him while the other resumed her various duties.
"Can I help you with something, sir?"
Flint slid the letter towards her. Without hesitation she scanned the letter and began pecking away at the keyboard with amazing speed and dexterity, eyeing the computer monitor for a few moments, continuing to type, look, type, look. The whole scenario repeated itself for what felt like an eternity, the two of them growing more and more impatient with every passing moment. Flint began to tap his index finger on the desk with frustration, but the secretary hardly seemed to notice.
Her kind, professional smile transformed to one of concern. "It appears that the Constable is in a confrence at the moment," she said, never peeling her eyes from the monitor, as if she were reading a pre-composed response for them. "He should be free at around 3 o'clock if you want to check back then."
"The letter specifically says '1300 hours', lady" Flint said, tapping it with his index finger.
"I'm terribly sorry, sir, but he's in a news confrence," the secretary repeated. Flame wondered if she was just a dummy with a tape recorder stuck to her back, repeating the same, monotonous speech reel again and again and again.
With a grunt of irritation, Flint turned and scanned the room, his mind working feverishly to come up with a solution. Finally he leaned over to speak to the other secretary, who seemed too immersed in her paperwork to even acknowledge his presence.
"Excuse me," Flint asked, "But could you direct me to Constable Winterfield's office?"
She pointed towards a hallway just to their left, oblivious to the conversation that had just transpired next to her. "Third door on the right."
Flint grinned and motioned for Flame to follow him down the hallway. The other secretary seemed to say "wait," her lips moving but her surprise preventing any air from escaping her lungs. Without hesitation, Flint strode towards the Constable's office and hurriedly opened the door without any notification of his presence. Inside, the Constable was sitting at his desk in dress uniform, his drill sergeant style cover resting next to him in his desk. A woman in a similar suit as the secretary's sat on the opposite side of his desk, a pad and pen in her hands. They eyed the pair with an awkward silence, neither group certain how to handle the delicate situation until the Constable perked up, seeming to finally remember who they were.
"Ah, yes," he said in a friendly tone. His voice was young yet powerful, a definite military man. He spoke to the woman across from his desk. "These are two of my newest enlistees. I was going to help them fill out some necesarry paperwork later today, but it appears that they have arrived early." He smiled at the two, and immediately Flint and Flame knew to just play along. "That shows puncuality. I'm impressed!"
The young lady smiled, buying the Constable's story. "Well, sir, I only have a few more questions for the interview, and since I did arrange to have this meeting weeks in advance—"
"Oh, of course, of course," Winterfield assured her, "I won't waste any more of your time." He motioned for Flint and Flame to sit in two well-furnished chairs adjacent to the door. Flint shut the door behind him and slumped into the chair next to Flame, twiddling his thumbs and eyeing the Constable with a hint of anger.
Winterfield locked eyes with him, and for a brief moment, the two seemed to engage in a mental fistfight, a subtle staredown. Flint eventually diverted his eyes towards a modestly stocked bookshelf that ran across the wall, Winterfield's strong military stature gaining him the upper hand. Flame couldn't help but snicker.
"So, Constable," the reporter picked up her interview, "explain the theory behind SIRI. What is its purpose?"
Winterfield smiled, placing his hands in front of him on the desk and interlocking his fingers. "Well, SIRI is an acronym for the 'Soldier Integration and Relocation Initiative.' Its chief designer was the late Constable Grey, to whom I was a subordinate."
"He was also one of the Contactors," the woman intervened.
Winterfield nodded, "Yes, that is correct. One of the chief designers of our defense strategy against the DL. The man was a brilliant tactician; without his help we would never have defeated them as swiftly and as cleanly as we did that day."
Flint noticed his aprtner grimace at the mention of the conflict.
"But you and him differed as to how to handle the subsequent detaining of prisoners, is that correct?"
"Yes, we had…well…conflicting opinions as to how the EST was to handle the sudden influx of over 500 POWs. All of us knew that we didn't have the capacity to handle those kinds of numbers, so a solution had to be developed quickly."
"You wanted to execute them all, correct?"
Winterfield appeared almost visibly wounded at her comment. He took a few moments to collect his thoughts.
"Well now, you can't go so far as to say something like that," he replied with a slight chuckle, as if he was under the impression that the question was a sarcastic joke. "No, I was simply interested in making sure that those who were ultimately responsible for the deaths of our fine citizens were duly punished. Whether or not that involved execution I was willing to leave up to the decisions of the governing council."
The woman nodded and scribbled on her notepad. "And what was Constable Grey's opinion on the matter?"
"He was much more sympathetic than I was, and for that I give him credit. It's no surprise to me that the governing council ultimately agreed with him on the matter, and that is how SIRI came into being. It was designed as a plan to reintegrate former DL soldiers and mercenaries into our society, give them a temporary home, some food, a steady job, and security."
"And you were opposed to this, why?"
"The EST simply didn't have the power to undertake such a project at the time. We had to franticly increase enlistment quotas, beg for more funding from the governing council, even decreasing pay for our soldiers temporarily so we could come up with the resources to impliment this arduous task. Luckily, the program finally launched and has been a testament to Constable Grey's compassion and ingenuity ever since."
More frantic scribbling. "Then," she said matter-of-factly, her calm, petit voice coated with a neutral spite that only those in the media business could produce, "There was the incident at Blu."