Adrian pushed one toe against the door of his small home, balancing the bags of groceries precariously in his arms and taking a quick glance inside. No one home; thank the gods. He moved with a swift gracefulness as if he were on air, placing the groceries on the nearest table and moving down the hallway, past his sons bedroom and into his. The room was clean and orderly, certainly the work of his wife, Anika. The poor girl; ship the kid off to school, the husband goes to work all day and all night, and what else are you to do?
Crouching down beneath the bed and pulling out a small metal case, Adrian felt his nerves twitch. There was work that needed to be done, and it was his job to personally see to its completion. Twist the number locks to their designated numbers, lick the dry sweat from the rim of the lips, breath shattering the silence of this comfortable world. He handled the firearm in his hand, for a second contemplating the sheer insanity of the situation. His wife comes home, the groceries neatly set in their proper place, the door to the bedroom left slightly ajar. Curiosity brings her to the doorway, something heavy keeping her from opening it. She calls his name with concern, his son chattering on about the picture he drew for him in class. Mother grows more frantic and pushes the door with her body enough to peek inside. A handgun and a desperate man.
Adrian swallowed hard, loading one magazine into his weapon and slipping it in the back of his khaki pants, throwing his jacket over it as concealment. He leaves the house and locks the door along the way.
One wouldn't imagine the house of a former EST High Commander to be this domestic. He blames it on the wife, who can't help but occupy her time with interior decoration. To him it's a waste of time. He offers seats to his guests with a warm smile, his generosity received with thanks and a hint of bewilderment. He offers them drinks, and they both shake their heads. Perhaps they are too young for such things. Pouring himself a small glass of vodka, he sets himself down in his favorite armchair across from the two young men and asks them what brings them here.
Flint eyes his partner, hoping he will do the talking this time around. Flame refuses, averting his attention to the small assortment of figurines on the mantlepiece. "Well, constable, we're not quite sure ourselves. Someone told us to come here."
The man laughs with the gruff, scratching voice of a man who's seen his share of cigarettes and war. "Please, please, enough with the formalities. Call me Jonathan."
Flint nods. "He said we could find all the answers we were looking for here."
Jonathan Grey's eyes narrow as he takes another sip of his vodka. "And what kind of answers would these be?"
"Who is Dogwood?"
Silence, Jonathan's eyes beginning to glaze with the kind of unique sheen that comes with the wisdom of old age. "Gentlemen,"he said with a stern, almost scolding demeanor. "I want you to tell me what it is you do for a living and I want you to be honest with me. Who do you work for?"
Flint and Flame eye each other nervously.
Jonathan studied them silently for a moment, then nodded, waving his hand as if to erase his question from existence. "Never mind, I understand. There's a confidentiality involved. Forgive me for asking." He stood up with a tired grunt, slowly turning his glass in his hand as he strode over to the mantlepiece, leaning up against it and studying a small picture that rested atop it in a simple frame.
"There are so many things that go on in this city that I believe even the devil himself would despise. And so many people are deceived into participating, that the act itself is hidden from the knowledge of even those who are committing it." He looked back at his two guests, who watched him with undivided attention as he spoke. "You two would do wise to avoid becoming too entangled in the dealings of this military, this government, this tangled web of a bureaucracy, lest you become food for the spiders who weave it."
"Excuse me, constable, I mean, uh, Jonathan. But you still haven't answered our question."
"Dogwood is the orchestrator of this whole drama unfolding itself around us. The mastermind of this social experiment."
"Retribution?" Flame interrupted.
"I have my doubts," Jonathan replied, placing his now empty glass on the mantlepiece next to the picture. "As to the existence of such a group."
"You think its fabricated?"
"If such a group exists, with its purpose to be the true retribution of an oppressed people, its target would not be military, nor would it be violent. They have seen the result of their violence before."
"Then who would carry out these kinds of attacks on soldiers?"
"Someone desperate enough to put themselves and the lives of everyone under them at serious risk. Someone," he said with a smirk. "Who holds great power."
"An interesting theory," Flame replied, leaning forward in his seat. "But what do you have to base it on? Personally I wouldn't put it past the former DL to resort to terrorism, considering the kinds of atrocities they've committed in the past."
"They're prone to acts of desperation, but hardly on the scale that we have seen."
"So who do you suggest did this?"
Jonathan grinned the way one would imagine God would grin when someone doubts his existence. "You have a lot of personal feelings involved with this, I can see it in your eyes. It would do you good to leave those feelings at home before you go to work, don't you think?"
"I lost family to those fucks," Flame's voice rose.
"And I lost my son. And the minute you bring emotion into combat you've put the enemy's weapon to your skull. They won't hesitate to pull the trigger, they're trained to do it."
Light a match and the tension might ignite and blow up the whole house. "I think we should go." Flint stood and motioned for his partner to follow. Flame rose to his feet and straightened his jacket, glaring at Jonathan who replied with a look of tired amusement. On the way to the door, Flint turned to apologize for his partner's behavior, but was stopped short when his glance turned to the picture on the mantlepiece. On it was a picture of Jonathan Grey in full EST uniform, standing tall and proud like every military statue. To his left stood two other soldiers in similar uniform, though significantly less decorated. One was Constable Winterfield.
"You can study a painting for a lifetime," Jonathan stated. "And you'll know what was painted and how. But unless you study the artist, you'll never know why." He tipped his glass, and Flint closed the door behind him.
"Alright, what the fuck was that all about?"
Flame scowled, looking out over the darkening skyline. "That's what I want to know. None of what that guy made any goddamned sense."
"I'm talking about you, Flame. You gonna flip out like that whenever we go looking for leads?"
"The guy was a maniac," Flame snarled. "Just a fucking senile lunatic who has no idea...guy probably takes a shit and forgets about it in 30 seconds, a waste of fucking time."
They started down the road in tense silence, neither interested in an argument. The more Flint tried to grasp what the former constable had said, the less it made sense. Who knew, maybe he was a few pieces short of a complete puzzle? But then why did that guy get himself shot to make sure they saw him?
"We're being followed."
Flint stiffened. "How many?"
"Two, maybe three," Flame replied with a whisper, reaching into his jacket and grabbing his revolver.
"You think we'll need that?"
Flame shrugged. "Let's find out."
A quick nod, and both of them made a sprint for the corner. Immediately the two men following them began to pursue, firing as they ran.
"Over here!" Flint shouted, grabbing his partner by the collar and leading him between two houses, pushing open a side gate and entering their backyard. A privacy fence stood six feet in front of them. "Start climbing, go!" Flame nodded and holstered his weapon, leaping up onto the fence and swinging himself over. Flint heard shouting and turned to see one of the men hopping over the side gate; quick aim, two rounds to the chest and neck, a spatter of pink and he collapsed to the ground like a rag doll.
Flame caught his breath, crouching and moving the side of the house on his side of the fence, hearing muffled voices coming from the other side. The gate opened with a lurch and a pair of footsteps ensued, stalking their way towards him. He waited until he saw the barrel of the gun peek around the side of the house and leapt in front of him, grabbing hold of his hand and twisting, wrapping his trigger finger around the man's and firing three shots into his belly with his own pistol. As he threw the corpse to the ground, Flint hopped the fence and caught up to him.
"Let's get the fuck out of here," Flint exclaimed, Flame nodding in response. They burst through the side gate to find four more men approaching from both sides, drawing more firearms as they came into view.
"This way." Flint tugged at Flame and led him across the street, the two of them firing in opposite directions at the oncoming foes. AS the fire increased, Flint found a small cobblestone wall in front of a dried out, dilapidated suburbanite home, stray bullets piercing easily through the cracked and crumbling walls and showering glass and bits of wood onto them as they struggled to return fire.
"Mr. Grey has some fucked up friends," Flint shouted, holding his jacket up to shield himself from the flying glass and pieces of stone as he fired three rounds at the slowly advancing pair of shooters from their side. Beside him, Flame pulled back the hammer on his revolver and took careful aim, putting a round through the top one of the shooter's forehead, knocking him backward before he slid limp into the middle of the street. The shooter beside him took quick cover behind a fence a few houses down and fired blindly over the top. Flame ducked down and began to reload his revolver, the firing from his end becoming more accurate and intense as he fumbled with the loose rounds in his jacket pocket.
Flint loaded another magazine into his Beretta. "They're getting too close! If we stay here we're..." A series of cracks and pings followed my a soft, slithery crunch. Flame locked the cylinder into his revolver and turned to his partner, who was leaning up against the wall on his side, a cold, bewildered look of shock stretching his face unnaturally, eyes wide and dilated as a steady spurt of dark, crimson blood streamed down his throat.
A woman works idly over a hot stove while her son trots around the living room, a small biplane in one hand and he thinks he can fly to the ends of the planet. A man and a woman push the limits of their own inhibitions in a tiny bathroom stall, while a young businessman questions his own morals as he pours himself another glass of rum to try and drown out the screams of the corpses in his head. A man frantically reloads his pistol, positive that what he's doing is both right and just, and a few homes down a teenager frantically presses his palm against his best friend's bleeding neck.
He can feel time around him begin to slow, the swaying of the trees in their rhythmic waltz along the skyline grinding to a crawl. The blood in his veins begins to boil, Flint growing weak against his weight, his teeth stained with his own insides and dripping with a sickening mix of blood and saliva.
"The longer you wait with this kind of information, the less chance you have of getting it used, Flame. On a long enough time line, the survival rate of everyone drops to zero." Razor's words ring in his head, drowning out the shouts of the two men rushing towards them, firearms withdrawn.
Kill or be killed.
This is the finish line.
With a bloodied hand, Flame picks up his revolver and struggles to raise his own arm. His finger slips on the trigger, one of the shooters fires but misses his head by a few inches. Flame re-aims and pulls the trigger, one of the shooters twisting as the shot connects with his chest and he drops. The other moves towards cover once more, but suffers a fatal shot to the side of the head and the right side of his face explodes onto the lawn.
A rush of blood to the skull, the crunch of grass against stone.
Flame turns and fires at a silhouette standing on the small cobblestone wall, but finds his weapon empty.
No hesitation. Emotion breeds death.
The more you question, the more people you love suffer.
The black-furred silhouette struggles, the weapon shaking in his hand.
He sees his son. His weakness is his downfall.
Flame twirls the revolver in his hand and grips the barrel like a baseball bat. The handle acts as a bludgeon and he swings at the shooter's head. He squints and fires, the bullet lodging itself in Flame's shoulder. He grunts and his weapon makes contact with its target and both fall limp against the ground.
Sirens increase and the smell of death intoxicates him. Footsteps grow near, a pair of boots stand shimmering against the moonlight. Flame sees a grin of ivory daggers and a trickle of blood croaks from the inside of his lip and Grease congratulates him on a job well done.
/End of Part One.