Flint pressed his chin against his chest, using the collar of his jacket to block the chilling wind that swept through the narrow alleyway, the smell of rotting garbage and stagnant water playing horrible tricks on his sense of smell. No matter how hard he tried to avoid it, this scenery, this tapestry of refuse and decay, brought with it a string of memories, like a record that skips incessantly and disrupts the rhythm of the music. For a moment he thought he caught a glimpse of his mother's face in the corner of his eye, a hallucination that caused him to jump. Upon noticing the alleyway was void of life, save himself, he let out an unsteady breath, the sudden rush of adrenaline sending a shiver down his spine.
Along one of the walls was a metal staircase leading up to a rotting wooden door. As he made his way up, placing one foot on each step in cautious anticipation of collapse, he took one last glance behind him, seeing nobody and feeling a little more comfortable. The doorknob resisted him, crying out in its desperate struggle not to submit. With a firm tug it finally gave way, the door letting out a satisfied groan as he entered the musky hallway, its dilapidated state reminding him of home. The faint sound of heavy metal rang from behind the walls as Flint moved to the end of the hallway towards a door with a sign that read "If you're selling something, get the hell away!"
Flint pushed the door open, its handle removed years ago for some untold reason. Inside, the music blared through a small boombox on the far wall with a grainy, irritating hiss. To his right, the room was gated off, the entrance chained and locked, securing a couple of gunracks filled to the brim with assorted firearms. The term "illegal" didn't quite do it justice; it was practically a sin. To his left, on a bare concrete floor littered with oily newspapers and dirty rags, a red hedgehog with half-stained black quills was hunched over a rather large rifle, his back facing Flint as he tinkered tirelessly with his weapon. Flint slammed the door behind him, causing the CD to skip and catching the now undivided attention of the shop owner, who turned in an angry huff.
"What the hell…Flint!"
"Long time no see, Razor," Flint replied with an amiable smile. They both took a few steps toward each other and exchanged handshakes, the small, yellow-tinted eyeglasses that sat near the brim of Razor's nose glimmering under the lone lightbulb that illuminated the room.
"Too long, my friend, too long," Razor patted his visitor on the shoulder. "Please, come on over to my workstation, I've got quite a little project going on." He motioned for Flint to follow him, stopping by the wepoan he had been adjusting before Flint had interrupted him: a massive sniper rifle painted silver and wrapped in burlap.
Razor listed the specs with pride. "Fifty caliber, 16x tactical scope, removable steel barrel, and an effective range of about 3000 yards. Leaves an exit wound the size of a basketball, or so I'd imagine." He motioned for Flint to pick up the weapon. "It isn't loaded. The breach is busted, anyhow."
Flint grabbed the rifle and handled it at his side, getting used to the weight. It was significantly heavier than most of the weapons he had handled in the past. Still, he managed to shoulder the weapon for a few seconds, looking down the telescopic sight, picking out the miniscule cracks in the crumbling wall with pinpoint accuracy.
"She's certainly a beauty," Flint complimented, setting it back down on the workspace, careful not to damage anything. "I can't imagine that it's easy to conceal, though."
Razor laughed. "No, not fully assembled. You could fit all of the parts into about two suitcases, I'd think. No one would suspect a thing."
"I feel like an idiot asking this, but is it illegal?"
"Illegal is such a harsh word, Flint," Flame said, grabbing a small tool from his workspace and leaning over to resume his work. "I prefer 'unappreciated'. Besides, it's not like I don't have the money to pay off the soldiers who stumble in every once in a while." He chuckled, putting the tool down and giving an immense sigh of accomplishment. "That oughta do it. Now then," he looked up at Flint, his dull yellow eyes gleaming with a friendliness Flint knew was fake, "what can I do for you?"
"I was interested in finding out who some of your more recent customers are," Flint replied in a stern tone.
"Oh, come now," Razor snickered, "Why would you want to know something so trivial as that? Besides," he bent down behind the desk and out of Flint's view, the sound of clanking glass mixing with his voice, "you haven't been around here to visit me for so long, I was beginning to get lonely." He stood up with a friendly smile, a beer in each hand. "Why not let business wait for a little bit while we, a couple of delinquents, catch up?"
Flint was never known to resist a cold brew, and he didn't plan on starting now. He grabbed one from Razor's hand, twisting the top off and tossing it to the ground. He watched with guarded interest as Razor raised the bottle to his lips, stopping just short of taking a sip and eyeing Flint with curiosity, his friendly smile degenerating into a mischevious grin.
"Something the matter?" He paused, then tipped the bottle upwards, taking a swig with a sigh of satisfaction. "It's an old draft, becoming difficult to find. You're lucky I'm such a giving individual."
Flint grinned, keeping his eyes fixated on the crimson hedgehog as he took a quick sip. His eyebrows raised in surprise, the cold draft going down smoother than the kind he usually drank. He held the bottle out in front of him and memorized the label, making a mental note to start purchasing this from Laura-Le's shop.
"You won't find this in any convenience store," Razor noted, reading Flint's reaction perfectly. "I had to get this special order off the black market. Well, it was more of a payment, so to speak." The hedgehog snickered, taking another swig, eyes glazed in recollection.
"It's pretty good," Flint commented, "Not the best, but pretty good."
"Well, we can't please everybody, now can we?" Razor set his bottle down on the workspace, pulling a metal stool from underneath it and setting himself down lazily. He looked up at Flint with a blank expression. "So, Flint, how's business for you?"
"Just got a new contract," Flint replied with a small grin of satisfaction.
Razor nodded. "I figured. You usually don't drop by unless you have some kind of agenda." There was a brief pause in the conversation, Flint twirling his beer in one hand as his unattentive gaze fell upon the locked gun racks. Pistols, rifles, machine guns of every shape, form and size creating an awe-inspiring collage of violence and chaos. Flint couldn't help but feel jealous.
"Do you ever feel like you're being used?"
Razor's unusually philosophical comment wrenched Flint from his daze. He turned to look at the store owner, who was eyeing him with all seriousness.
"What do you mean?" Flint replied.
Razor sighed. "You know, Flint, by the goons in suits. The EST, the corporate oligarchs, every Joe Blow with a suit and a tie and dreams of world domination."
Flint shrugged. "I guess I haven't thought about it much."
"Well, I have," Razor said, his voice becoming more lethargic. "Just seems like every time I flip on the TV or read the newspaper, someone's dead or dying and some businessman is making a load of dough. Take the Blu guy for example. Probably thinks he own the whole damn city with his fancy little nightclub and all his money. But what do we get? The guys down in the dirt, trying to scrape up a living in this city? Yea, we get shot up! What a goddamned scene this place is." He took a frustrated swig of his beer before continuing. "A real freak show, if you ask me."
"You've certainly got a lot of pent-up emotions," Flint replied with a slight snicker, "You're starting to remind me of Flame."
"And why would you say that?" the crimson hedgehog inquired -- his cold, yellow eyes transfixed on his drink.
"He's been acting very strange lately." Flint thought back to that morning, when his partner had left the apartment in such a hurry, and how he seemed unnerved by the prospect of visiting Razor, something the two had done on numerous occasions. "Seems like he's always distracted, and he refuses to step one foot into the square…"
Razor shrugged. "Well can you really blame him? I mean, considering the kind of shit he's had to endure…" Confused by the eerie silence of his guest, Razor looked up, Flint staring at him in a sort of unnerved bewilderment.
"What?" Razor asked. "Didn't he tell you?"
Flame shut the door to his apartment behind him, immediately kicking off his shoes and lifting his shirt over his head, tossing it onto the mossy green couch. Inhaling deeply, he made his way towards the bathroom, holding his breath for a few moments before exhaling, some of his stress dissipating. The whole day had been a torrent of nightmares, and as the sun finally began to dip under the horizon of the city, Flame felt content hiding in its shadow. He flipped the switch on the wall next to the doorway, the light flickering as it struggled to illuminate.
He felt like shit; someone was taking sandpaper to his mind, smoothing out the wrinkles so he couldn't think. Groping at his eyes in frustration, he tried to blot out the memories, the ball and chain around his ankle slowly dragging him further and further into insanity. The shower sqeaked on before sending a torrent of icy cold water into his awaiting hand. It was raining that day, too – wasn't it?
"Damn!" Flame spat as he felt the water slowly turn warmer. The past was melting into the present, every thought, every impulse blotching his memory. Was Flame really at Razor's? Had they ever talked to Constable Winterfield? Did the conflict ever occur? Were his parents…
"This is insane," Flame reasoned aloud.
He quickly stripped himself of his remaning effects and stepped into the steamy mist, the hot water working to further calm his nerves. Closing his eyes, the sound of rushing water drowning out the white noise, he was finally able to relax, the warm water melting his worries and cares away as it slid across his fur. With a sigh, he slid one hand across his forehead and down his locks, squeezing the water from them only to find them soaked a moment later. He repeated the motion, finding it more and more enjoyable every time, as if somehow the rinsing was wiping his mind clean. Soon his hand ran across his shoulders and chest, as he began to recall Flint's smile in the morning, how he acted so docile when he was the only one around, how he would fall asleep on the couch watching tv in just his pair of jeans, softly purring like a child.
Flame could feel himself blush despite the warm water, as his hands ran across his sides.
"I didn't mean to wake you."
Slowly the water was warming, and Flame swore he could feel Flint's hands rest against his hips.
"I'm here to thank you."
Adrian rubbed the soap against his hands, using the cold water draining from the faucet to rinse them clean. Grabbing a few paper towels that sat on the small counter below the mirror, he attempted vainly to dry them, discovering too late that they did nothing more than move the water across his fur. He grumbled in frustration, tossing the towels into a nearby trash can and drying his hands on his suit.
In the mirror, a cold, ruthless face stared back at him, eyes fixated with unwavering earnest, features broad and menacing, teeth glittering like brilliant pearls, the canines peeking out from the corners of his mouth. Like an animal waiting for the perfect moment to pounce upon its prey, his face showed no emotion, no hesitance, only pure, relentless concentration.
He could barely recognize himself now. The thought made his stomach wrench, and he did his best to avoid his own reflection. He had known that taking this job would change him drastically, but somewhere in the back of his mind, Adrian had hoped that somehow he would be able to maintain some semblance of dignity despite his profession. Respect, yes, he got plenty of that from his colleagues. Hell, he was probably one of the better-known people in the whole city, although he accredited half of that fame to his boss's reputation, and not his own. Still, he wondered what the cost of that glory was, and whether or not he had paid in full.
Outside the bathroom, two brutes in sport jackets held a silent vigil, each one eyeing the opposite side of the hallway for suspicious characters. They were in a restricted area, only employees and approved visitors were allowed behind the main floor, but assailants had a nasty habit of getting access to places they shouldn't. Adrian picked up his small metal briefcase, opened the door and straightened the tie around his neck, nodding to his bodyguards to follow him outside. They were significantly larger than he was in every dimension, their muscular figures acting as steel barricades against any variety of attacks.
"Top notch," Demetrius had praised them. "The best the city has to offer."
Yet Adrian couldn't shake the nagging suspicion that these were crooks and thieves, roughed up and snatched from their homes. Or maybe they had volunteered, looking for a more stable career without having to abandon their love of violence. Either way, Adrian felt like he had seen some of them in the club before.
Down a whitewashed hallway into a quickly darkening night, a transition Adrian found amusing, considering the work that was to be done. Like an angel falling into Hell, its wings ripped from its back, a thin trail of blood detailing the horrific plunge into the abyss. His grip on the briefcases tightened until his knuckles were white, a numbing chill running down the length of his spine. He eyed the area behind the club with cautious skepticism before lifting the sleeve of his jacket to check the time. His new, chrome-plated watch read 7:50pm.
He swallowed hard, smothering the incessant nagging of his conscience with saliva.
"Let's go."
"Don't take it personally, old boy. Sometimes people want to confide in someone other than their closest friend. It doesn't necesarrily mean it's about you."
Flint laughed, pulled the Beretta from the hem of his jeans and pointed it squarely at Razor's chest. The hedgehog's eyes widened to the size of dinner plates behind his small yellow sunglasses, his grip on his drink loosening, sending the bottle to the concrete floor with a crash. He felt the adrenaline rush through his veins as he pulled the trigger, the pistol kicking back into his arm, a blinding light flashing from the barrel into the dull air. The hedgehog grunted, the bullet smashing against his chest. His handly slowly moved over his wound, never touching it, as the blood flowed freely across his body. With a stifled groan, he slowly hunched forward, sliding off of his stool onto the cold ground. Without a second thought, Flint hopped over the workspace to find the crimson hedgehog curled into a fetal position on the floor, a puddle slowly forming beneath him.
"Pathetic," Flint spat with a satisfied grin. Placing the sole of his boot on Razor's shoulder, he twisted him so that he was facing upward, back firmly planted against the cold floor, teeth gritted in consuming pain, eyes staring at Flint in a dazed bewilderment.
Crack! Flint pulled the trigger again. Crack crack! Razor grunted as his abdomen turned to liquid. Crack crack crack! Flint's eyes glazed with satisfaction, some of Razor's blood spattered across his cheek and onto the tip of his gun. Crack crack!
Razor's body twitched slightly, his dull yellow eyes rolled back into his head, and then there was silence.
Flint nodded. "Yea, I suppose. I'm kind of curious, though. Why wouldn't he just come to me?"
Razor shrugged, placing his beer on the workspace next to him. "Sometimes people want a different opinion than the one they ususally recieve. After a while, you can kind of start to expect what some people will say to you, so it isn't even worth asking, you know?" He removed the small sunglasses from the brim of his muzzle and rubbed them with a dirty rag. "But that's neither here nor there, now, is it?"
"Yea," Flint replied, not sure how they had digressed onto such an obscure tangent. "I need to know who you've been doing business with lately."
The slick hedgehog grinned, shaking a finger at his company. "Now now, I don't kiss and tell."
"BS -- Besides, you owe me from that time at the bar, remember?"
"Yea, right," Razor scoffed, slightly offended. "I could've taken those guys on without your help."
Flint laughed. "Right, with that much tequila in you? You couldn't have punched the wall if you'd wanted to, and you know it!"
A humiliating frown crept over Razor's face as he tipped his empty beer can over with his finger, watching it slowly roll across his workspace. "Just a couple of thugs, teenagers, you know, generic scum."
Flint crossed his arms, eyes narrowing in stern interest. "You'd better not be lying to me."
As if on cue, a slight grin perked along the hedgehog's cheek. "What would I have to gain from betraying you?"
Flint closed the door to Razor's shop behind him, grunting in frustration. If there was something Razor was hiding, he wasn't going to crack, that much was certain. From what he could tell, however, the hedgehog was in the clear, and that meant his only real lead at the moment had vanished. Beaten at his own interrogation game, Flint skulked down the hallway, the door at the end sitting slightly ajar, letting a thin breath of frigid air slip through. As Flint started to turn the doorknob, he heard muted footsteps coming from outside the building. Slowly, he released the handle, leaning his head up next to the crack in the doorway to try and pick up on the conversation that was taking place below.
"You're five minutes late."
"Sorry pal, we got a little tied up getting over here."
"Whatever, do you have the goods?"
"Lemme see the letter."
There was a shifting of bodies and the sound of rustling paper before another one of them spoke.
"Alright, lemme see the cash."
Flint picked up on the distinct sound of the latches of a suitcase being undone, followed by a brief moment of silence. Then, there was a scraping sound, as if someone was dragging a large object across the concrete.
"Jesus Christ, these things weigh a ton."
"You get what you pay for, eh? Alright, are we all set? Excellent. Send your boss my regards."
"Likewise."
With the utmost caution, Flint opened the door a crack, slowly poking his muzzle out until he could just see two figures making their way down the alley towards the street. It was difficult to make out their appearance in the prevailing dark that now clouded the city, but Flint was nearly certain that one of them was wearing a blue baseball cap. After the duo was about three fourths of the way out of the alley, Flint started to follow them, careful to avoid anything that could make noise. Sticks, bottles, tin cans, the alley was like a minefield if you were trying to be sneaky. The duo had just turned the corner onto the street, Flint eyeing this as a perfect time to gain some ground on his two new targets. He picked up his pace, making it out of the alley in record time, only to find that the duo had vanished into the city somewhere. Flint stood, dumbfounded, scanning the street and finding no sign of anyone nearby.
"Great," he growled, taking out his anger on a small rock and sending it rolling across the street. Something about the meeting that had occurred in the alley seemed too convenient. Though, it was entirely possible that it had nothing to do with the EST, Retribution, or his contract at all. Yet there was a grinding feeling in the pit of his stomach that said all of them were inexplicably intertwined. He took one last look at his vicinity, his confidence slowly fading, and then started to make his way towards home.
The journey took almost an hour, which gave Flint plenty of time to think over the day's events. His anger towards Razor as well as Flame was subsiding, but still prevalent enough at the moment to cause any competing thoughts about his contract or Retribution to be quickly subdued. Again, something about Razor's demeanor and his revelation about Flame's private visits seemed too convenient. He was beginning to wonder if the whole thing wasn't a setup by the ex-DL's trying to mess with his head. Did anyone else know that he and Flame had gotten a contract? Recalling that afternoon, Flint had no reason to believe that anyone other than he, Flame, and the EST were in on them. At least, no figures stood out in his memory.
The media? It was possible that the woman in Winterfield's office had called up some of her colleagues, got them to trail Flame and himself to try and stir up the hornet's nest, but that seemed too over the top, even for them. No, perhaps everything was just thought, and the meeting outside Razor's shop was just a bunch of punk-ass teenagers trading drugs or contraband, or splitting the loot after a robbery. Flint knew he had to surrender to the idea that nothing that had happened today was connected in any way, not only because it seemed valid, but because it was the only way he would be able to keep himself sane for the walk home.
The city was enveloped in darkness, the dull flickering of broken street lamps offering small increments of relief every few yards. Inside the flats, visibility was even lower, and Flint's feet seemed twice as large as he stumbled up the staircase, cursing and threatening the wooden floorboards for making his day miserable. Inside, the situation only became worse when he saw Flame sitting innocently on their green couch reading a dull, rotting book. Flint stepped into the room and slammed the door behind him, stifling an urge to laugh as his partner almost jumped three feet into the air.
"Jesus, Flint," Flame said between frantic breaths, his face beginning to flush from embarassment, "Why'd you have to go and do that?"
Flint scowled at his partner, making his way towards the kitchen without a word, only the sound of his boots striking the floor breaking the tense silence.
"So, um," Flame hesitated, watching his partner move across the room with guarded curiosity, "What did Razor have to say?"
"Not much."
Flame's eyes narrowed in concern. "Then what's wrong?"
The telephone interrupted their conversation, clanging like a pair of cymbals on the counter next to Flint. He eyed the reciever for a few seconds before picking it up.
"This is Flint."
"Flint. This is Lance Corporal Everson. I'm Constable Winterfield's subordinate."
"So?"
"So, heh, yes, we need you down at EST HQ as soon as possible."
"What for?"
"Some of our boys found someone who may be of use to us, but we're going to need your assistance to get him to cooperate, understand?"
A devilish grin slowly creeped up Flint's muzzle. "Boy, you picked the perfect time to call me up."