Time passes slowest only when you wish it wouldn't. Flame found the statement to be particularly valid as he listened in painful silence to the calculated tick of the clock that hung in the waiting room of the hospital. He ran his hands across his face and rested them on the back of his neck, inhaling deeply to find the air around him saturated with the stench of blood and sweat. An unsteady sigh escaped his lungs as he clawed desperately inwards for something that could comfort him. Finding nothing, he closed his eyes and tried to ignore reality.
"Is he going to be alright?"
Awkward silence. Damn doctors and their need to sugercoat everything.
"He's lost a lot of blood, but he should be alright. The bullet just barely missed his heart. To tell you the truth," the doctor turned on his heels and continued as he started to walk away, "It's a miracle that he's even breathing."
Down the hallway, first left, third door on the right; with an unsteady hand Flame opened the door to his partner's room and peeked inside. The room seemed covered in latex, shimmering with an unnatural clean that made Flame wrench. Perhaps it was because it made for such a stark contrast, the pure, untainted walls of a hospital against his twisted psyche. On one side of the room sat a tall, metal closet, a few non-descript notepads attached to the doors, medical jargon he didn't pretend to know how to read. On the opposite side of the room was a medical bed surrounded by various devices sinister in appearance yet docile in function.
He took a few hesitant steps forward, unsure of just how he would react to seeing his partner's condition. Already he could feel something welling up inside him as he approached the white-clothed bed, a slow, methodical beeping emanating from the heart monitor creating a perfect metronome to time his shallow breathing. He knelt next to the bed, his partner sleeping peacefully, as if nothing was out of place to begin with. It was unnerving to see him so docile after what had transpired, and even though the doctor had said that he was going to be alright, a feeling inside of Flame told him that there was something being hidden from him, a horrible revelation that everyone felt he didn't need to be informed about.
Flint was dying.
He choked back a pang of emotion, whispered , "Flint." There was no response.
"Flint," he said with more force. Already it seemed as if Flint was dead, despite the reassurance from the medical devices that his heart still beat with the same vigor as it had before. And yet the dark recesses of his mind convinced him of the contrary, and Flame was having an increasingly difficult time discerning between the two. For a brief moment, he wondered if the whole experience was real -- reaching out his hand and placing it on Flint's head, the feel of his warm fur against his palm reassuring him to some extent.
"Jesus Christ, Flint, what the fuck were you thinking?" The torrents of emotions that Flame had been suppressing were resuming their slow trek back up into his throat, and this time Flame was powerless to stop them. His hand curled into a fist, clenching tightly into itself until his knuckles turned white. "If I had just stopped you…" The monitor behind him chimed with relentless consistency, mocking him , reminding him of the things he couldn't have, his partner dying while he was frozen with indecision. "All your fault, all your fault," Flame repeated through a dry, chafed throat.
"All your fault, all your fault."
Flame wheeled around to find a grotesque figure hovering over him, his face shrouded by his own shadows, only his dull green eyes and sharpened teeth jutting from his sinister grin visible beyond the darkness. It inhaled deeply through the cavities between its teeth, creating a hideous scraping noise like a sawblade on concrete, and then exhaled through its nose, only to repeat the process with mathematical consistency.
His voice was as shrill as his breathing. "You just can't get it right can you, Flame? Always gotta mess everything up. Ah, God, that's so like you."
"Wh…wha…who are you," Flame stuttered, his tongue feeling twice its size.
"Why, don't you remember me?" The figure put his hand to his chest and pressed into it until his rib cage cracked, a torrent of black blood spreading down his forearm and stomach and legs. A putrifying stench tugged at Flint's senses as the figure reached his hand into his chest, pulling out a glimmering chrome revolver in his blood-soaked palm.
"I'm your best friend, Flame." He inhaled sharply as he pointed the weapon at Flint, pulling the trigger and splattering the young echidna's head across the wall and floor.
Flame's eyes widened in diseblief. "Flint?"
Blood stains on white sheets. The smell of putrid decay.
"Flint!" He moved his hands over his partner's body, never touching it, a thousand voices screaming in his head, clouding his judgment. "Flint!"
The figure chuckled, a trickle of his own blood seeping over his lower lip. "It's time you forgot about that pile of garbage, Flame, start concentrating on what's important." He slipped the revolver back into his chest, the gaping wound producing an unimaginable amount of fluid that had completely stained the front of his body, legs, feet, and now created a crimson pool below him that grew with a slow, constant motion like syrup. "I'm here to save you."
Flame shook with rage, gripping the bedsheets and clenching his fists until they turned a milky white. "From what?"
The figure inhaled. "From you."
He shouted and threw his fist backward, striking the heart monitor with unnatural force. He winced as the glass shattered around his hand, the well-timed chimes slowly fading as he began to bleed into the hardware. The pain shook him from his nightmare, his eyes darting about the room in guarded terror as he gingerly removed his hand from the machine, shards of glass protruding like steeples from the corners of his palm. He tugged at one of them with care as two doctors in white coats rushed into the room.
"What the hell happened?"
Flame ripped the shard from his hand, letting the blood drip onto the white tile floor.
The Lance Corporal was smaller than Flint had expected, making his military posture marginally less intimidating. The crimson-colored echidna strode towards he and his partner as if he were lighter than air, sizing them up with light blue eyes as he approached.
"Glad to see you could make it on such short notice," the uniformed echidna said with a grin, shaking Flint's hand as if he were some kind of tour guide. "Welcome to the Holding and Interrogation wing of EST HQ."
"Let's make this quick," Flint stated with a hint of spite. "I'd really like to get some sleep."
"Of course, of course, follow me." He motioned to Flint and Flame to accompany him down a dull-colored, ill-lit hallway lined with imposing sound-proof doors. The carpeted walls made the soldier's footsteps more muted as he clicked along in a common military strut. Flint recalled Razor's comment on the EST, and stifled a small grin. About twenty yards further stood two uniformed soldiers, each one armed with a semiautomatic pistol and a piercing glare that could turn water into ice. They snapped to attention as the Lance Corporal neared them, tossing up a quick, dignified salute which Everson promptly returned. He motioned for the two to enter the door adjacent to the one they were posted to guard, and in a few moments one of them returned with a manilla envelope, handing it to Everson.
"This is the information we know about this man," he stated as he scanned over the papers clipped inside the envelope, "Basically all we're looking for right now is any new information."
Flame interjected. "So you already know he's guilty?"
"That's correct," the Lance Corporal replied, still engrossed in his reading. After a few moments the soldier closed the envelop and handed it to Flint. "Me and my men will be in the next room recording the conversation. I'll give you two a few minutes to prepare—"
"We're ready," Flint interrupted, opening the envelop and taking a quick glance at the criminal's dossier. Attached to his biography was a dirty black-and-white mugshot. The man looked like a killer: deep, troubled eyes, rugged complexion, fur frayed and matted like it hadn't been washed in weeks; your typical badass who got too cocky.
Everson grinned. "Excellent. Now, if you'll excuse me…" the Lance Corporal made a slight bow and then entered the recording room. Once the door was shut and locked, Flint spoke.
"This is not how I feel like spending the evening."
Flame nodded. "Just don't go too nuts on this guy, alright? He needs to look decent for his sentencing."
"Whatever," Flint spat, tucking the envelop under one arm and opening the door marked with a large, dark blue 17. Inside the off-grey walls were polished to an impressive shine, a small, folding table set up in the far corner. Next to it, the criminal, clad in a bright orange jumpsuit, was bound to a small, unconfortable steel chair by his hands and feet. He said nothing as they entered, content to stare at his bare feet in morbid silence. The man was much frailer than the picture had led both of them to believe, and didn't seem interested in a struggle. Already Flame could pinpoint some bumps and bruises where he had presumably been roughed up by the guards. Flame sensed something was amiss as his partner paced towards him, kneeling down so they were eye to eye.
"Evening," Flint said in a calm tone. "How are you?" The man didn't even notice his presence, tracing a line across the floor with his big toe. "My name's Flint, and I'm going to be asking you a few questions." He took the manilla folder from under his arm and handed it to Flame, who took it over to the table and sat down. "Now, the EST has informed me that you're involved with a certaing group calling itself 'Retribution.'" No response. "And that you were also involved with the murder of about a dozen soldiers." Abject silence. Flint let out a strong sigh of frustration and began to massage the area between his eyes. "Look, you're probably tired and pissed off right now, and so am I. So let's not make this more difficult than it has to be."
The man raised his head so his eyes were level with Flint's. They gleamed with an intensity that even caught Flint off guard. "I'm not talking to any soldiers, you got that?"
Flint grinned. "Well I'm not a soldier, so that shouldn't be a problem." He watched with a certain amount of satisfaction as the man's glare slowly faded. Turning on his heels, he walked over to the table and picked up the manilla envlope, eyeing the first page as he took up a position behind the criminal. "It's a simple game, and there are two ways to play it. There's an easy way, and then there's an even easier way." He leaned up next to the criminal's ear. "And I'll tell you right now, the easy way is a helluva lot less painful. So why don't we get started." He straightened his back and picked out the first piece of information from the dossier.
"Name?"
Silence. The criminal sat with a thousand-yard gaze, flexing his toes in heroic protest.
"Name?"
Flint slapped the envelope shut, twisted his body and planted a perfect side kick into the man's head. A soft thud, followed by a terrified grunt, and the the chair tipped onto its side, dragging the man to the floor. A muffled groan escaped the prisoner's lips as he lay pinned to the cold floor by his own weight, writhing back and forth to try and alleviate the pain that shot through his upper body.
"These are the easy questions, mate," Flint said with a slight chuckle. "If we're having problems now, I can't imagine how hard it's going to get later on." The prisoner stifled another painful groan and relaxed body, submitting to gravity. Flint leaned down and gripped the chair, forcibly standing it upright along with the prisoner, whose right nostril now produced a small trickle of blood.
"You really don't wanna get me mad. I don't think your body could take it. So let's try this one more time: state your name."
The criminal was silent for a brief moment, struggling with the voices inside himself that told him to hang on. "Ian," he finally submitted with an exasperated voice, "My name is Ian."
"How old are you, Ian?"
"I'm…I'm 27."
Flint paced slowly around the prisoner, who kept his eyes glued to the ground in front of him as he answered each of Flint's questions.
"How long have you been held by the EST?"
"About a year or so. I lost count."
"When did you join the DL?"
Ian hesitated, Flint studying his posture, his lower lip, his eye movement, anything that would give him a sign as to the validity of his statements.
"Like, three years ago or something. I couldn't point out the exact date."
"Why'd you join up?"
Silence.
"It's not a trick question, Ian. Why did you sign up?"
"I…I don't know."
"You agree with their ideals?"
"I suppose so."
"Aren't you a piece of work," Flint spat. "You have any family? I bet their dumb as hell, just like you."
"Why the hell would you care," Ian growled.
Flint stopped right in front of the prisoner. "I asked you a damn question! Do you have any family?"
"Fuck you!"
Flint gritted his teeth, gripping the back of Ian's chair and tossing it forward with as much force as he could muster. He heard Ian yelp just before his face hit the floor with a crack, the back of the chair pinning his neck to the ground in an unnatural position. Without a moments hesitation, Flint drove the toe of his boot into Ian's stomach, receiving an agonizing growl in response. Ian curled against the chair, his bound arms and legs preventing him from doubling over in pain. Thud! Flint planted his heel into Ian's ribs.
"You're a real piece of work, you know that," Flint said, cracking his knuckles as he stood over his victim. Ian looked up at him from the corner of his eye, a terrible grin forming on his lips as he raised his middle finger from behind the chair.
"You just don't learn."
He grabbed the back of Ian's chair. "Open the door," he barked at Flame, who quickly obeyed, holding open the exit door as Flame dragged his prisoner into the hallway. Outside, the Lance Corporal and his guards exited the recording room and watched him with disbelief as the legs of the steel chair scraped across the hard floor behind him.
He stopped next to Everson, eyeing the door at the end of the hallway with interest. "Where's that door go to," he asked.
"That leads to the storage basement. It's got stairs, so I don't think you –"
"How many stairs?"
Everson seemed stunned by the inquiry. "I'm not sure…I suppose about twenty."
Flint shrugged. "I suppose that will do. Thirty would've been better." With a tug he got Ian's chair to move again, the sound of steel on tile enough to make glass shatter. "Ever taken a fall down a flight of stairs, Ian," Flint shouted over the noise. Ian looked as if he were staring at death square in the face. "It's not a pretty ordeal. A good friend of mine took a spill down one once. Broke a kneecap, arm, collarbone, and two ribs." He looked back at his shaking captive and sneered. "But he wasn't tied to a chair." Once they were at the doorway, Flint dropped the chair on its back, Ian shouting in pain as his head hit the tile floor. Flint propped open the door with one foot, leaned down and lifted Ian up so he was facing the doorway, and the starway that seemed to drop without end into a black void.
"That's a long way down," Flint whisteled, admiring the imposing fall before him. He crossed his arms over his chest, giving Ian a few moments of tense silence to think over his options, the same expression as a deer in a car's headlights plastered behind his blood-stained muzzle.
"Tell me what you know," Flint ordered. Silence as Ian stared blankly at the doorway. "Wrong answer."
"Dogwood," Ian yelped as Flint pushed the chair towards the starway. "Dogwood!"
"What the hell does that mean?"
"It's a name it's a name," Ian pleaded, his words muddled together as he spoke frantically. "A codename, someone told me 'dogwood dogwood' that's his name."
"Where can I find this 'Dogwood'?"
Ian hesitated, eyes glazing back into a lifeless stare. Flint leaned the chair onto its front legs so Ian's center of gravity was placed precariously over the edge.
"Holy hell!"
"Where is he?"
"I…I don't know!"
Flint let go of the back of the chair, Ian gasping in terror as he began to tip forward into the abyss. Just as he was about to take the final plunge, Flint grabbed the back legs of the chair and held him fast.
"Oh god, goddammit!" Ian shut his eyes tight, a bead of sweat dripping from one of his locks onto the first stair.
"I can't hold on much longer," Flint told him.
"Th…the warehouse," Ian finally snapped, "Just outside of B-District. Dogwood, I swear to God he's there pull me back up."
"Don't lie to me, Ian!"
"Goddammit pull me back up!"
He grunted as he pulled the chair back into stasis, letting the back legs hit the floor with a jolt. Ian was breathing heavily, eyes clenched shut, a small trickle of blood forming over his lower lip where he had been biting it. Flint knelt down behind him, putting his hands on his shoulders as he spoke. "If you're wrong, you'd better hope I don't find you." The sound of Ian's hard swallow was enough of an aswer, Flint rising to his feet and leaving him with the Lance Corporal and his guards.
Flame had stayed by the room during the ordeal, and he eyed his partner with disdain as he approached.
"You didn't have to go that dar, did you?"
"Whatever," Flint shrugged, the two of them making their way towards the exit.
"So what's the plan now," Flint inquired.
"It's time to give this 'Dogwood' character our humble regards."