"…So he walks up to this soldier, and the kid looked like he's just got his stuff together, you know, like he had just signed the enlistment papers about an hour ago and then tossed him a uniform. Anyway, he walks up to this guy, he's standing about six inches from his face, wreaking of booze like nobody's business, and screams, 'Christ, son, if I order you to take a dump in your boots, you'd better start squatting!'"
Flame doubled over in laughter, clutching at his sides as if his stomach would explode. The empty room echoed all afternoon with witty commentary, sexual innuendos, and personal anecdotes as the two struggled to pass the aching hours stopped like pigeons at the windowsill, the filtered white light becoming a deep orange as the sun set over the tops of the high-rises, sinking like a dommed ship into the bottomless ocean of steel and concrete that hugged the skyline. They sat on opposing sides of the window, the traffic of the streets beginning to fade with the waning of the sun.
Flint let out one last emphatic sigh. "Damn, that kid was hilarious." Without warning, Flint's eyes glazed out into a thousand-yard stare, his voice seeming detatched from his mouth. "What ever happened to him?"
"Don't you remember?" Flame said, his partner shaking his head in response. The words came out unevenly, the jovial atmosphere devoured by the harsh reality. "Raped and murdered just outside of his house; slashed across the neck."
"Christ." A moment of silence, either out of remorse or because of the delicate tension that wrapped itself around the conversation. "He was only, what, sixteen?"
"Something like that." Flame cursed himself for even bringing it up. He raised his half-empty bottle of beer and swirled the contents, studying the liquid as it foamed and tossed about.
"I miss those days, though," Flint said, scratching an itch that surfaced where his neck and shoulder met. "Working with the guys. You know, back when we didn't get all caught up in the politics."
His partner nodded, downing the rest of his beer and rolling the bottle across the cold floor and into the shadows.
"Just get the job, get it done, take the check; Wham, bam, thank you, ma'am.
"They were like family, those guys. Always ready to help you out when you needed it, even if it wasn't in their best interests. Those are the kinds of people you want to associate yourself with. Everyone's looking out for themselves, asking 'What's in it for me?' and what not. It's total bull. You've gotta be able to communicate, put all the cards out on the table, and trust that the guy sitting next to you isn't going to blow your head off or something." He chuckled, turning to his partner and expecting more laughter in return. Instead, Flame had his knees hugged to his chest, eyes staring with zealous intensity beyond the darkness of the room into infinity. He instantly recognized something was amiss and inched closer, his partner poised solid like a statue as he did. "What's wrong, man?" Flint asked, caught off guard by the sudden mood swing he was experiencing. Flame was known for being capricious sometimes, and this was a small yet significant step further.
"I never told you about my family." His voice was soft and timid, eyes locked as if unaware of his presence.
Flint had trouble forming a response. "Um, no, I guess you didn't."
Flame's eyes lowered and centered in on the tips of his boots as if his life story was written on them. "I grew up in B-District, back before the conflict and before it turned into the mess it is today. My parents were well off, able to afford putting me through some pretty good schools. My dad wanted me to be a writer." Flint laughed with a sick desperation. "And look at how that's turned out, eh?"
Flint smiled, relieved that his partner could still maintain a slight sense of humor. "What happened?"
"The conflict started and we had to leave home, which was right in the wrecking ball's way. You remember everything about that: total chaos, bombs dropping everywhere. The shit hit the fan and my parents and I were stuck in the middle of it. My father tried to lead my mother and I across the crowded square, and a mortar shell hit right next to us. I got knocked a few feet, got a nice scar across my left leg." He traced the path over his jeans. "When the smoke cleared, I struggled to my feet and found my mother hunched over my father. He was bleding like mad, the shell basically taking off his lower body." Flame's voice began to crack. "He said something to my mother, who was bawling, but I couldn't pick up what it was. It must've been some kind of 'I love you' or 'take care of our son' or something, because she was a total wreck after he said it, and so was I. He looked at me and smiled, and all of the blood…" He paused. "The blood had stained his mouth a putrid crimson. It was horrific. All around us, blood, sweat, and tears; toil of the damned. We tried to stay together, we really did, but it was like fighting against the current of a massive river. I ended up huddling in the corner of a convenience store until an EST soldier found me."
Flint was now able to understand his partner's erratic mood swings and unusual behavior. He turned so his body was parallel to Flame's but facing the opposite direction, their faces only a few feet from each other as Flame continued.
"I didn't know where to go or what to do. The EST gave me some food and water, but I ended up alone again. So I made my way back towards our house, across the wreckage that used to be our neighborhood. There were still soldiers scattered about, doing God knows what. I ignored them, and they ignored me. I figured our home was the first place my mother would go to after everything had settled down.
"It was hit bad. The whole building has collapsed in on itself as if it were made of cards. So I waited an hour, which turned into two, into four, one day, two days…" He brushed the top of his hand across his nose. "I found my Dad's revolver, along with some of the old books he had been reading. I gathered them up, took a seat outside, and decided I was going to kill myself." He stared at Flint, eyes dilated and inoocent like a small, helpless animal. "And that's when you showed up."
Flint smirked and patted his partner's knee. "You didn't turn out too bad. Your parents would be proud of you, I'm sure."
"Yea," Flame replied with a slight smile. "Not much in the way of consolation, I'm afraid. But thanks for the effort. Hey, what about you? You never told me about your family."
Three figures in black trench coats made their way into the warehouse below.
"They're here." Flint grabbed his jacket and slipped it over his shoulders. As Flame regained his composure, he made sure he had a full magazine in his Beretta, slipped two more into his jean pockets, checked that the safety was on, and slid the barrel into the front of his jeans. His partner had his father's revolver in one hand, the empty cylinder tipped open as he slid six bullets into the tubes. They were in front of the warehouse in under a minute.
Inside the air was humid and wreaked of sweat, twin beams of light crossing in the air above them as the sunlight filtered through the windows in the thirty-foot high ceiling. The main portion of the warehouse was filled with nondescript wooden crates, a large area at the entrance cleared away. To their right, a rough-looking hedgehog eyed a centerfold of pornography with smug interest as he sat on a dilapidated loveseat, taking a quick moment to glance at them as they entered. On the other side of the clearing, two echidna dressed in black trench coats had started a game of ping pong on a rotting table, the rythmic click-clop of the plastic ball like a drill against Flint's temples. And just ahead of them, a brutish fox had his legs crossed on a card table, his dull blue eyes following them as they shut the large steel doors behind them.
Clip. Clop. Clip. Clop.
"Can I help you two?" The dark-furred canine inquired with a hint of irritation, placing his feet on the ground.
Clip. Clop.
Flint took a step forward, his fists in his jacket to cover up his firearm. "I'm looking for someone."
Clip. Clop.
The fox smirked, the dull scar across his right eye crimping with the folds of his muzzle. "Aren't we all? So does this mystery man have a name?"
Clip. Clop. Clip. Clop.
"A nickname of sorts."
"Is that so?"
Clip. Clop.
"Dogwood."
No more clips. No more clops. The two men in trench coats set their paddles down and looked at Flint, the hedgehog closing his smut and tossing it behind the couch. The kitsune also came to his feet, standing at least seven inches taller than Flint and much wider.
"The boss won't talk to just anybody, you know. What makes you so special?"
"I can kick your ass."
The fox laughed, arching his shoulders and letting his trench coat slide off. Underneath he wore tactical pants, steel-toed boots, a tight grey shirt and enough brawn to put most soldiers to shame. "You've got a lot of guts, kid, but you've got a big mouth."
"If I'm talking too much, feel free to shut me up."
With a grunt, the fox lunged at Flint, throwing his right fist at the young echidna's face. Flint slid to avoid the strike, his opponent quickly regaining his footing and twisting to face him. No one else in the room made any attempt to help, as if it were an unspoken rule in this dojo of steel and aluminum. They walked in a perfect circle around each other, adjusting their stance with every twitch of the body, every uneven breath triggering a response. The fox dipped down and slid his foot across the floor, knocking Flint's feet out from under him and sending him flying sideways into the concrete floor. He caught himself on his hands and rolled to the side, using his momentum to thrust himself at his opponent, landing a firm punch on his jaw. The fox stumbled slightly, throwing up his arms to guard against another surprise attack. Flint twirled his foot towards the fox's ribs. Without hesitation the fox wrapped his arm around Flint's leg and flung his own heel into the echidna's chin, and then twisted his arm so Flint was tossed back to the floor.
"Punk," the fox snarled through gritted teeth, towering over his pinned opponent and raising his fist and thrusting it down with as much force as me could muster.
Flint raised his hands and caught his opponent's blow. Using his outstretched arm as a pivot point, Flint twisted his lower body and brought his left leg around to the back of the fox's head. There was a sharp thump, and the his eyes widened in surprise. A muffled grunt slipped from between his teeth, and he stumbled forward. Using his opponent's momentum to his advantage, Flint turned further so he was straddling the fox's arm as he fell face-firt to the ground, and with a sharp tug and a loud pop, he dislocated the arm at the shoulder.
"God!" The fox howled in pain. "My arm! Dammit, you broke my arm!"
Flint pressed his knee into the fox's back and wrapped his right arm around his neck, pulling his Beretta out with the other.
"Now," Flint said, pressing the barrel of his weapon to the fox's head. Immediately, the two men by the ping pong began to reach into their coats.
"Not so fast," Flame said, drawing his revolver and aiming it at the two. They brandished their pistols, one aiming at Flint and the other at him. He turned and found that the hedgehog was gone.
"You're going to answer my questions, ok?" Flame continued, unphased by the stand-off.
The fox grunted and struggled to get up. "Screw you."
"Wrong answer." Flint straightened his back and removed the gun from the fox's head, pointing it at the back of his thigh and pulling the trigger. A crack, a flash, and suddenly the brawny canine was screaming in agony, his leg twitching as it poured crimson blood.
Flame straightened his aim at his two targets, but neither of them moved to aid their comrade.
"Where's Dogwood?"
The fox hesitated. "I…I don't know."
Flint pressed the gun against his other thigh, and he howled.
"No no I swear it, I don't know! They told me to do this, but it wasn't supposed to go this far!"
"What?"
The fox turned towards his two comrades, who stared back at him with blank faces. "You screwed me over, you sons of bitches! This wasn't part of the deal!"
"You're not making any sense."
The fox stared with disbelief at his partners, who made no move to come to his aid. They watched him with unnerving zeal from their comfortable position outside of danger. He growled, perplexity turning to anger. "Green Row."
"What?"
The two mens' eyes widened slightly.
The fox continued. "Green Row. Building 55. You'll find your answers there."
The one aiming at Flame turned and fired, splattering the fox's head across the cold floor. Out of instinct, Flame aimed and fired, putting a bullet in the attacker's eye and sending him reeling into the floor. Flint rolled off of the corpse below him and leaped behind the couch, followed closely by a hail of gunfire. As soon as Flint was behind cover, the echidna sprinted behind the boxes and into the darkness of the ware house.
"Great!" Flint shouted as he peeked over the edge of the couch. "Follow him!"
Flame nodded, making a dash for the darkness, gun at the ready. He followed the narrow corridor of boxes and metal crates, Flint's footsteps a faint sound behind him. He finally came to an open doorway, a blast of cool evening air thrashing at his senses as he exited into a narrow alleyway beside the ware house. A shadow moved, and he fired a bullet down the alley, a grunt and a thud confirming the hit. Once Flint had caught up they advanced on their target, who lay bleeding on the ground emitting shallow moans as he clawed at his side with a bloody hand.
Something about him jogged Flint's memory.