Author's Note: Those of you who have followed this story will notice that the rating has been increased. Since I began posting this story on this website, it has been my goal to ensure that it can be read by a large audience. To accomplish this, I have edited as much violence and language as I could without losing the shock value of the novelette. However, there are portion of this chapter that were necesarry and too gruesome to be allowed a T rating (at least in my opinion). The last thing I wanna do is push the line and get my stuff deleted. For concerned parents, I will continue editing the content as I have before. Sorry for the interruption : )

"Something's bothering you."

Flint paused, his hand clasped around the doorknob, the other holding a bronze-colored key in one of the door locks. Staring blankly into the unopened door, he mused over what series of words would best describe his situation.

"Fuck." He twisted the doorknob and slid his keys into his jacket pocket, the door creaking on its rusty hinges, groaning like an old woman who had broken every bone in her body. Working the jacket off his back, he tossed it onto the coat hanger and rushed his way towards the kitchen, eager for a healthy dose of alcohol to drown in. He bent down into the fridge and grabbed a bottle, turning to see Flame leaning on the kitchen counter, his face flush with irritation and concern.

"You're not gonna tell me?"

Flint scowled. "You never told me, either." He twisted the cap and tossed it to the floor, tipping the bottle back into his mouth and letting the bitter liquid wash his mind clean. Razor was right, this stuff was crap compared to what he had at the shop.

Flame watched him in silence as he shuffled into the bedroom, setting himself down on the edge of the bed. As Flint started to remove his shoes, Flame wondered if it this was the best time to put all of his cards on the table. An electric surge of tension shot through him as he sat down next to his partner, who tossed one of his boots into the corner as if Flame wasn't in the room. He brought his knees up to his chest and watched Flint untie his boot, holding the top of his bottle between his teeth, eyes narrowed in frustration, and couldn't help but find him attractive.

"What are you looking at?" Flint snarled, the bottle still dangling from between his lips. Flame blushed and averted his gaze, beating himself up for being so careless. He waited until Flint had slipped off his shirt and started sliding back into the bed before he spoke again.

"So…you're just not going to tell me," he asked, unable to hide the sadness behind his voice. His partner was silent as he slid under the dark covers, taking another swig before setting the bottle next to the bed.

"You went to Razor's without me?"

Flame sighed. He had a vague idea that this was what was troubling Flint, and knew he had a habit of blowing things out of proportion. "I just went to talk. Nothing else."

"What, you can't just talk to me?"

He shut his eyes and hugged his knees tighter. "It's…not like that."

"Whatever," Flint snorted, pulling the covers up to his chin and closing his eyes, clinging desperately to the hope that tomorrow would be less frustrating than today was.

Flame turned with hesitation, watching Flint curl into the bedsheets, appearing so calm and innocent in the dim moonlight that filtered through the blinds. He felt a sudden urge to crawl up next to him, wrap his arms around him tightly, nestle his head into the crook of his neck and just pretend the whole ordeal had never transpired. But he could only imagine the kind of psychotic reaction he would receive for doing so, the stark reality cutting him to the core. With an unsteady sigh, he removed his jacket and shoes, tossed them to the ground and laid down on the opposite side of the bed, the tension creating an impenetrable void forcing him to the edge of reason. He clenched his eyes shut, curling his knees back up to his chest, and tried to forget that everything in his life had gone to hell.

Warm, humid breath over fluttering eyelids.

Flame let out a muffled groan as he was wrestled from his sleep. Opening one eye in frustration, he spotted a small kitsune kneeling over him, his light golden fur seeming to glow in the morning light. The young fox peered at him with naïve curiosity, brushing the small tuft of hair that grew out over his forehead and matted against his eyes. Thoroughly confused, Flame propped his upper body up on one elbow, shading his eyes from the light with one hand.

"What the hell?"

The young fox cocked his head to one side. "Who are you?"

Flame raised en eyebrow at the child as he stood, brushing the dirt off of his knees. It was then that Flame noticed the kitsune's right eye was missing, the socket gaping out of his head like the toothless mouth of a wailing child. There were scratches and scars all along the young boy's lender frame, his feet bare and covered in calices and cuts that opened their glistening mouths to the wet air. The young fox watched him with child-like interest, studying his every move as if it were something foreign and perculiar to him. With a grunt, Flame climbed to his feet on the sharp gravel ground, wicing as the small shards of rock cut into his feet.

Flame raised a hand to shield his eyes from the imposing sunlight. "Where am I?"

The sky was a deep orange like a sunset, yet the sun hung at the apex of the sky. Jagged, alien peaks shot up from the ground in the distance and pierced the skyline like knives. Flame's body began to sweat in the overly-humid air, but the young kitsune didn't seem to notice.

"Where am I," he repeated, the fox cocking his head to one side.

"We are the hollow men." His voice was muffled and coarse, like someone had scraped his vocal chords with sandpaper and let them bleed dry in his throat. He turned on his heels and shuffled towards the horizon without another word, taking a quick glance back at Flame once he was a few yards away. Flame began to follow him with guarded curiosity, making a conscious effort to keep a few yards between him and his tour guide. The sun beat down on him relentlessly, and after only a few minutes of walking Flame felt compelled to strip off his shirt, leaving him with only a pair of jeans to shield his body from the elements. Wiping the sweat from his brow, he shouted to the fox once more.

"Where are you taking me?"

The young boy stopped, his back facing Flame as he spoke. "As wind in dry grass…"

"What?"

The boy turned his head, his gaze lowered to the ground. "Or rat's feet over broken glass." He resumed his trek, gesturing without motion for Flame to follow. He reluctantly complied, not sure why he trusted this young boy. He had cared enough to watch him while he slept at least, and Flame couldn't remember seeing anyone else nearby.

Nothing in every direction, only blank, pitiless gravel that tore at his feet as he walked. The question ran through his mind once more, and he was tempted to try and wrestle an actual answer from the young fox once more. He winced, bending down to pick a small piece of gravel from the sole of his foot, and when he stood back up he found that the young fox had disappeared, and something else had taken his place.

Eyes he dared not meet in dreams.

He sat, perched on a rather large boulder that baked under the sun. The heat didn't bother him much anymore as he stared into the bleak, orange horizon, hands clasped around one knee in meditative silence. Grease sat next to him, equally silent save the rotten sound of air passing between his jagged teeth.

Grease, or at least that's what Flame had come to call him. He had said that his name couldn't be pronounced with Flame's vocal chords, so he'd given him the nickname because of his unusual complexion. He was a tall, lanky echidna, dark red fur, almost black with small shimmers of crimson that stood out in the sunlight. His eyes were a sharp green, the kind that turned your insides to ice; a cold, merciless stare that Flame couldn't help but admire. A ragged black cloak was draped over his body, and he had a long, wooden staff that he perched his hands and chin on.

"What is this place?" Flame asked, resting his chin on his knee.

"This is death's dream kingdom," Grease croaked through his teeth. "The end of the line. You're a lucky one, Flame, to be able to see this place."

"Fantastic," he replied with little enthusiasm.

"It is a fantastic gift," Grease replied, eyeing his visitor with modest concern. "To be able to witness the aftermath of death and still be within the realm of the living. Of all the people alive you are the only one who can best understand what it means to be so."

"I don't want it."

"What?"

Flame grimaced, adding a hint of spite to his voice. "I said, 'I don't want it.'"

Grease narrowed his eyelids, the green orbs perched behind them glowing with irritation.

Flame felt compelled to continue. "I'm sick of this. I'm sick of all of these dreams, these premonitions, and all of this worrying!" He turned a hateful eye towards Grease. "And it's all your fucking fault!"

"I don't expect you to understand," Grease replied with fatherly reassurance. "But I do expect you to trust me."

"Screw you," the green echidna exclaimed, tossing his hand across the air between them as if to swat away his words, "Screw you and your bullshit! If I wanted your damn help I would've asked for it."

Grease glared at the visitor as he stood and took a few heated steps forward, crossing his arms over his chest like a pouting infant. "And you would prefer the alternative?" He paused, allowing Flame to fully digest the question before he continued. "Living in blind ignorance, does that suit you? Scraping your way through life like a naïve child?" His anger began to emanate through his slithering voice. "You have no idea what's in store for you down the road. But I do, and I have the power to help you avoid it."

Silence. Grease smirked, confident that he had left an impression on the young echidna, whose body began to shake softly. A whimper escaped Flame's lips, steadily growing in volume as he spoke.

"I can't believe this," he snickered, "I can't freaking believe this!"

Grease's confidence quickly faded. "Believe what?"

Flame turned, his face tightened from laugher. "You don't exist! You're just some figment of my imagination! I've been so stupid!"

The dark echidna's fists clenched in rage. "Is that so?"

Howling with laughter, Flame was unaware of the quickness with which is companion moved. Behaving as the wind, Grease flung himself at Flame with unnatural speed and dexterity, his green eyes glimmering with rage as he drove his hand into Flame's stomach, the tips of his fingers slowly piercing through his fur and skin. Grease smirked, pressing his body up against Flame's, spraying musky breath into his gritted teeth, widening eyes and tensing body.

"Some imagination you have there," he growled, twisting his hand as it probed deeper into the green echidna's body. Flame let out a muffled moan, eyes fixated on his assailant with painful consistency as he clawed at Grease's arm with quivering hands. "There are things you won't be able to understand about what I do, Flame, but you'll just have to accept that." Trails of blood began to flow down Flame's abdomen as he cried out in agony. "What you believe is irrelevant, what you want is irrelevant." Flame fell to his knees in blinding pain as Grease's fingers probed deeper into him like maggots, neither ripping nor tearing, only exploring his innards with neurotic curiosity. "I may have to drag you kicking and screaming, but in the end you will thank me, Flame. You will thank me!"

He snapped, his stomach and thighs drenched in his own blood, his mouth tasting of bile. Grease's eyes seemed to spill with contempt, glowing like sunlight on a broken column. He howled, cried out for the first person that came to his mind.

"Flint!"

A voice echoed back, distant at first but slowly growing in intensity. Grease removed his hand, Flame falling onto his back in exhausted agony. The bright sky blinded him with a warming glow as he felt two hands grasp his shoulder and shake him, the calm, concerned voice beginning to chant his name.

"Flame, what's wrong?"

The sunlight strained his eyes. A light touch to his shoulder sent him into a panicked leap, his head making contact with the wall. He yelped in pain, rubbing the back of his head with a clammy palm as he struggled to control his panicked breathing. Flint was hovering over him with sympathetic concern, a hand on either side of Flame's body so that they were only a few feet apart.

Flame found it difficult to breathe again.

They could see the warehouse from the third story window across the street, the shades tilted enough to conceal their presence without blocking their line of sight. Inside, the air wreaked of old booze and sex. For a moment, Flint tried to imagine the kind of escapades that may have taken place in the exact spot he sat, feeling a pang of nausea flow over him as he did.

"This place is a hell-hole," Flint said, his voice echoing off the empty walls. Everything: the furniture, the carpet, the wallpaper, even the tiny nails and screws that once held ornate portraits and valuable china, had been stripped from the area. When he had first inquired about the previous occupants of the room, the landlord simply snorted and walked away, content to have made a few extra dollars by renting the abandoned room out for a few days. So here they sat, watching the sidewalks for any sign of suspicious activity near the old warehouse Ian had mentioned. "I don't know if I can handle staying here for the next few days. These punks better pick up the pace."

Flame snickered, opening the small cooler they had brought with them and pulling out two beers. He tossed one to Flint, then used his shirt to twist off the cap. "All part of the contract, I guess. Besides," he tipped his head back and sucked down a few gulps, "now we have plenty of qualty time to spend together."

"Fantastic." Flint rolled his eyes and sipped on his beer silently, the sunlight casting off-white bars across his face as he stared out the dusty window.

Something about the situation seemed a bit too perfect. He was interested in finding out why Flame had gone and talked to Razor without him, as well as what they had talked about. Now seemed like the most opportune moment to inquire, but that fact caused him to hesitate. Both of them were stuck in this one room, by this one rotting window, for God only knew how long; could either of them bear the awkwardness of this kind of a conversation? Perhaps it was best to just let it slide, talk about something less personal. Maybe discuss the contract a bit more.

"So what did you talk to Razor about?"

Flame didn't flinch, but inside he panicked. A feeble attempt at masking his sudden embarassment led him to take an unsteady sip of his beer. He felt his partner's gaze piercing into him as he spoke.

"What…it…it was nothing, really."

Flint raised an eyebrow. "Nothing? I find that really hard to believe."

"Nothing…nothing that concerned you…" He cursed himself. This kind of deceit had a habit of wrecking relationships. And yet he felt compelled to cover up his conversations to maintain the calm and friendly atmosphere that once inhabited the musky air. "I don't wanna talk about it right now. It's…not important."

There were a few seconds of awkward silence as Flint turned his body so he was facing the small bars of warm light. He closed his eyes, speaking as calmly as possible. "Did it have to do with the dreams you've been having?"

Flame almost cheered with delight. Finally, a small portion of the conversation he didn't have to lie about. "No, it doesn't have anything to do with that. Not with that at all." Some of the tension seemed to dissapate, and both of them relaxed as a result, taking intermittent drinks while watching the anonymous citizens below go about their business, unaware of the prying eyes that stalked them along the way. For a moment, Flame felt a pang of guilt for it, averting his gaze to the peels of paint that marked the rotting window pane. He slowly reached out and peeled a small portion off, examining it between his index finger and thumb with a curious eye. He pressed the paint chip between his fingers, crushing it into tiny pieces and dusting them onto the ground next to him.

Outside, he saw a young couple share a brief, playful kiss before parting ways, and the sight make him sick to his stomach.