The office door slowly shut, and Winterfield breathed an immense sigh of relief. Leaning back in his leather chair, he massaged the area between his eyes, the stress causing him to forget Flint and Flame's presence in the room.
Flint cleared his throat, and the constable frowned.
"I'm sorry you had to be here to witness that," Winterfield said, rising from his seat, "I really do hate the media." He opened one of the desk drawers and produced a small glass and bottle filled with an opaque brown liquid. Unscrewing the top and filling his glass, the constable eyed his two visitors.
"Would either of you like some?" he asked. They shook their heads, and he placed the flask back in its drawer, taking the cup in one hand and walking to the corner. Flint heard a faint beeping noise, and the back wall seemed to collapse on itself, revealing a large window overlooking the parade field.
"It's a very complicated time," the constable said, looking out over the field, "Much too complicated for a soldier. It used to be simple, with the good guys and the bad guys clearly defined. But now…" he raised his glass to his mouth, the liquid seeming thicker than water as it slid down his throat.
"What did you call us here for?" Flint asked, growing impatient.
Winterfield continued as if uninterrupted. " 'And even though the wound has healed, the blood seeps through.' Constable Grey's words." He returned to his seat, placing the glass upside-down on the corner. "Sometimes a natural, orthodox approach can't completely solve a problem."
"And that's why you need us," Flame replied with a grin.
Winterfield returned the expression, "You two came highly reccomended from my staff. 'Top-notch', they said. And, after reviewing your file, I am inclined to agree with them." He reached into another drawer and produced a manilla envelope stamped with the official EST insignia. "You two know the drill," he said, sliding the envelope to their end of the desk. Flint leaned forward and snatched it from him, reading it in silent contemplation as Winterfield continued. "It's a simple monitor and report job, with a little bit of intelligence work intermixed. I assume you two can handle that sort of thing?"
Flint eyed him over the top of his reading. "Then why the official summons?"
The constable smirked. "This one is significantly more delicate than the usual job. We'll have a specialty EST squad working on the same project; your assistance is required for the more 'delicate' portions of our operations."
Flame frowned. "So are they going to be holding our hands through the whole ordeal?"
"Not if you don't want them to. In fact, there's no reason why you should even come in contact. You will be reporting your findings directly to me, as will my squad, and then my staff will work to coalesce and disseminate the useful information."
Flint closed the manilla file and placed it on his lap. "You still haven't told us specifically what we're doing."
"Of course," Winterfield replied, interlacing his fingers, "Straight to business."
He tapped his finger against his ebony desk, watching the second hand on the clock mounted over his door swirl past twelve, marking the thirteenth hour.
"Always late," Demtrius grumbled, leaning further back into his black leather chair and turning to look out the large window behind him. Below, the custodians were working feverishly to prepare the club for the next night's patrons: vacuuming, mopping, buffering, sweeping, organizing. A few crates of liquor had arrived through the front doors and were being carried over to the blacklight bar to be stored and evetually served to his customers. He had trouble suppressing a grin as he imagined the floor filled with people. Never in his wildest dreams had he seen everything coming together so quickly and precisely.
The door snapped open, and Demtrius was shaken from his hallucination. Slightly startled, he turned to see Adrian, his right-hand man, standing in the open doorway.
"I…hope I'm not disturbing you," Adrain said, taking a cautious step into his office.
Demetrius chuckled, "Nonsense. Please, come in." He motioned for Adrian to enter as he rose from his seat, opening a small box on the side of his desk and pulling out a cigarette and box of matches. As he placed a cigarette between his lips, he noticed Adrian was holding a white envelope. A sudden nervous anticipation shot through him, causing him to momentarily pause.
"Is that…"
Adrian felt unnerved by his boss's sudden mood change. He played with the envelope in his hand, a sudden urge to tear the letter into thousands of pieces beginning to consume him. He could see the white bits of paper fluttering softly from the sky like snow as he tossed them into the air, Demetrius's face equally white from shock, fists clenched in rage. He'd feel those light blue hands clamp around his throat, tightening like a tourniquet until his hysterical laughter turned into a gurgling choke.
He felt the envelope snatched from his hand, still lost in his mind games. When he finally returned, Demetrius had cut apart the seal and removed the folded letter. He sat back down in his leather chair, the look of a hemit consumed by his holy readings plastered across his face.
Mr. Demtrius Blu:There are no complications. I will deliver the gifts as soon as I am able.
Half-dark; the 2000s; k-15.
Regards,
Lightfoot
"Eight o'clock, the usual meeting place," Demtrius said as he re-read the correspondence, "Bring two of your men with you, just in case."
Adrian felt sick to his stomach. "How much?"
"Fifteen thousand. You can take it from the safe."
"Sir-" Adrian stopped himself.
"What is it?" Demtrius asked as he set the letter on his desk and proceeded to light his cigarette.
The smell almost made him gag. "It's…it's nothing, sir."
"Have you ever heard of a group called Retribution?"
Both of them shook their head.
"It's a radical fringe group of ex-soldiers and captives, or at least that's what we know. We've managed to question a few of our subjects about them, but so far we've only been able to snatch up useless facts and a few equally useless names and locales."
"So why the interest?"
Winterfield reached into yet another of his desk drawers, sifting through letterheads and various interoffice memoranda until he stumbled on a couple of greyscale intel photos attached to a report. He slid them both across his desk for Flint and Flame to review.
Flint removed the photos and passed the report to his partner. The first showed a stone wall riddled with bullet holes and a thick streak of blood. Curled in the corner was a uniformed body, shot and beaten almost beyond recognition resting in a puddle of its own blood. Flint grimaced, the next slide depicting more of the same, one corpse's face pierced by a knife, the handle jutting from the victim's right eye, the face contorted in horrible agony. Flint felt nauseous. He began to look at the third photo, but seeing only the corner caused him to reconisder. He flipped them over on his lap in disgust.
"What the hell happened?" he asked, eyeing his partner, who read the report as if it detailed something infinitely more pleasant than what Flint had just seen.
"Those photos were taken about three months ago, when a group of subjects rioted and slaughtered almost a dozen guards. We were able to cover it up enough to where the media couldn't sniff anything out. Damned bloodhounds, they are. Somehow they got their hands on a few weapons, as you can see from the photographs." The two handed the photos and the report back to the constable, who promptly placed them back in their drawer. "As it turns out, someone using the alias 'Lightfoot' has been smuggling arms and other paraphernalia to this group called 'Retribution,' who released a note claiming responsibility for the attack. I have a copy of it here." He produced a paper from his uniform jacket and handed it to Flint who opened it and held it between himself and his partner so they could both read.
The earth is defiled by its people;
They have disobeyed the laws,
Violated the statutes
And broken the everlasting covenant.
Therefore a curse consumes the earth
Its people must bear the guilt.
…
The gaiety of the tambouriners is stilled,
The noise of the revelers has stopped
The joyful harp is silent
…
The ruined city lies desolate;
The enterance to every house is barred.
In the streets they cry out for wine
All joy turns to gloom,
All gaiety is banished from the earth.
Let all who see and hear
Remember that which came to pass,
And tremble in fear at that which is yet to come.
Retribution is at hand.
"Poetic," Flame said, leaning back into his seat. "Vague, too. How do you know this isn't just some prankster who wants media attention?"
Winterfield frowned, "Because it was found on every body."
"So you want us to take care of the guys who did this?"
"Just lead me to them, and I'll take care of the rest." Winterfield rose from his seat and extended his hand. "So, do I have to settle for second best, or do we have a contract?"
Flint eyed his partner, who took one last glance at the note. "How much?"
"Eight hundred thousand. A million if the media doesn't catch wind."
Flint was sure his eyes were going to pop from their sockets. A million! The number seemed unreal to him; they wouldn't have to work for the rest of their lives!
"It's vital that the media never hears of our operation. If they do, the whole EST could be compromised. So," he eyed Flint, then Flame, then Flint again, his hand still outstretched, "Do we have a contract?"
Flint didn't wait for his partner's input. He grasped the constable's hand and shook it firmly. "You bet your ass we do!"
After filling out the seemingly endless amount of paperwork involved in their contract, Flint and Flame exited EST HQ through the same door they had entered, optimistic and energetic. The sun was beginning its descent over the horizon, peeking out from behind one of the taller buildings on the skyline, bathing the city in golden light. Flame took a deep breath, savoring the crisp, cool air that set his fur on end.
Flint stuffed their copy of the paperwork in one of the inside pockets of his jacket, a childish grin peeking out from the corner of his mouth, his blue eyes gleaming with an attractive sense of joy.
"A million dollars," Flint thought aloud, "Seven figures."
"It's not ours yet," Flame interjected, feeling a bit of remorse for ruining his partner's euphoria. "First we have to find out more about this so-called 'Retribution.'"
"We should go swing by Razor's."
"You really think he'll know anything about this?"
Flint shrugged, the two beginning to make their way down the street. There were few people outside at this time of day; this part of the city tended to shut down relatively early. "If they got their hands on some weaponry, he probably sold it to them."
"True," Flame agreed, turning his body to avoid someone walking the opposite direction. "But does that mean he's trustworthy?"
"I don't see why not." Flint glared at a young woman coming towards him, encouraging her to step out of his way. "His friendship is based on price, not alliances."
"Well, you go on ahead," Flint said, coming to a stop on the corner. Flint stopped a few paces ahead and turned to face his partner.
"You've been acting strange lately," Flint observed, eyes narrowing with concern, "Is something up?"
Flame felt his heart skip a beat. Yes, there was something the matter. He could tell Flint about his dreams, his nightmares, his haunting past, become lost in the compassion he knew had to exist behind those piercing eyes, that blank face. A compelling urge to break down in tears began to creep up inside of him, all of his pent-up bitterness and affection thrashing at his conscience.
"No, nothing's the matter," Flame assured his partner, slipping his hands into his jacket pockets. "Just…don't wanna visit Razor right now is all."
Flint smirked. "The guy is a fucking psycho. Ok, I'll meet you back at the pad around dinnertime." Flame nodded and made his way around the corner towards home, a cold chill slithering up his spine as a gust of cool wind caressed his body. At least, that's how he rationalized it.
It seemed amazing to him at the time, how all of downtown could transform into a ghost town the very minute he needed help. The partially lit sidewalk left no hint of a population, the street unusually silent as if no one had dwelled there for ages. Only the waning moon accompanied him, casting a dim, milky glow to light his path.
He felt his partner trip, the weight of his flaccid body pulling him towards the earth. He grunted in anxious frustration as he reaffirmed his grip on his partner.
"Jesus Christ, Flint," Flame hissed through gritting teeth, "You're going to have to try and walk at least a little bit."
Flint chuckled, his legs shaking like gelatin as he strained to support himself as best he could, one arm around Flint's shoulders, the other gripping his wounds, hand, sleeve, and shirt soaked with blood to the point that it dripped onto the pavement as he struggled to walk.
"It's fucking ironic, isn't it?" Flint said, his voice faint.
"Don't talk," Flint replied, "Just concentrate on staying alive, ok?"
"What difference would it make if I died?"
"Don't fucking talk like that! The hospitals right down there." Flint motioned with his head towards a well-lit building, "EMERGENCY" emblazoned across the large doors in bright red paint.
The color of blood. The scent of death.
"Don't die on me!"
The hundred yard trek seemed to drag on for an eternity, every step seeming to take them farther away from their destination. Flint's body was becoming heavier by the minute, his valiant struggle to survive becoming more futile with every drop of blood that escaped his body. By the time they made it to the front doors, Flame was struggling to catch his breath, his shirt and face stained and wreaking of perspiration. The automatic doors slid open, a burst of cool, too-clean air pressing against him, barring his path. With a grunt, he dragged his partner into the lobby, managing to call for a doctor before collapsing onto the sterilized tile floor from exhaustion, his vision going dark as he saw two people clad in white coats dashing towards them.
"Please…don't…die."