Chapter Two: Two New Rogues

Finnegan was positive he'd never been put through so much work in his life.

A box packed high with his things lay at his feet, and he kicked it angrily. He had been forced to move, again, after the Mayor of his previous hometown had accused him of stealing the neighbor's car.

He had done it, of course, but it was for a good reason. The judge didn't seem to understand that.

The only good thing about the move was that his best friend had come along with him. Finn had urged him not to come, but Dillard only shooed it off, insisting something along the lines of, "If you leave, I'll have no one to destroy Mrs. Rosen's hydrangeas with. Destroying hydrangeas by yourself isn't any fun."

Dillard was now lounging on the couch in the living room.

"Come on, man," Finn said to him. He had what was probably the heaviest box yet in his hands, and was struggling a bit. "Can't you help any?"

Dillard sat up, taking a swing from the bottle of root beer in his left hand. "I practically did all the work packing those boxes. It's your turn."

"You didn't pack any of them!"

"That, my friend, is where you're mistaken. That box you have in your hands right now is one I know I did."

Finn sighed. He knew Dillard wasn't going to be of any help. Instead, he made his way to the kitchen, and dropped the cardboard container on the nearest counter.

His stomach made a loud protest when he turned to leave the room. He hadn't ate since lunch yesterday, and it was starting to take a toll on him. "Dill," he called loudly to his friend. "You want some food? I'm making something for me."

Why he asked considering the fact that Dillard wouldn't get off his butt and help would be a mystery to him.

"Yeah! Sandwich, please!"

"Got it." Finn made his way over to the wooden cabinets and threw open the door, only to be met with an empty compartment.

"Dill! Didn't you go to the store yesterday?"

The sound of skin slapping against skin came through the kitchen. "I knew I forgot something."

"Dill!"

"Sorry!" Dillard cried as he burst through the swinging door. "You know not to trust me with remembering things!" To emphasize his point, he tossed up his hands.

Finn groaned and searched for his shoes. "Never mind, I'll go do it."

Dillard tossed him the cheap, battered shoes. They had multiple holes, and it was evident that he needed a new pair, yet they didn't have the money to buy them.

Dillard smiled sheepishly. "You need me to go with you? I mean, it's the least I could do, consid-"

"It's alright, Dill. I'll go by myself." Finn said, and smiled at his friend.

Dillard nodded. "Well, I guess I'll go unpack some boxes then."


The town Finnegan and Dillard had moved to was small. So small, it wasn't even listed on the map of this area. It only had one stoplight - a battered, rusty one that barely worked - right in the center of the town. All the buildings were fabricated around it to construct the town that stood today.

Most of the buildings were demolished by now, in fact, the only ones remaining fully intact was the grocery store - where Finnegan was now - and the jail.

Despite the fact that he'd only been in the town for a day, Finnegan had heard plenty of information about the prison from the citizens. The police of this town were strict, horribly so, that even the slightest suspicion of Roguish activity caused the perpetrators to go straight into a cell. No trial, not a single chance of slipping past and gaining freedom once more. More often than not, they were never seen again.

The townspeople swore that anyone who strolled past the jailhouse late at night could hear the tortured screams of the inhabitants. Finnegan didn't want to discover if that was true or not. He didn't need to go back to jail.

Where is the stupid bread aisle, Finnegan thought.

He turned left, into another aisle, and found it empty. At the end lay pack after pack of bread. Finally.

He reached out for one, and grabbed it. When he turned around, a man stood a few feet away, calmly scanning the packets of sweets before him. However, as Finnegan began to walk back up the aisle, the man's eyes followed him.

Finnegan instantly knew that the man wasn't looking for something to sooth a sweet tooth.

What would make people suspicious of him already? He hadn't stolen anything, unless you count one of Dillard's shirts when they were behind on laundry. And he hadn't broken any laws, as far as he knew.

So why was the man now following him?

He headed for the checkout. The man followed him at a distance, trying to seem inconspicuous.

The woman behind the counter smiled at him politely, though Finnegan could tell she was annoyed. He returned it, albeit sarcastically. She tossed his things into a bag and shoved it into his hands, along with his change. "Good day." She snarled, turning her gaze back to nails.

Politeness obviously is a priority, he thought bitterly.

He exited the store. A few feet away from the entrance he stopped, then stooped down low, facing his shoe. He searched for the man from the corner of his eye, and soon spotted him pretending to read a poster across the street.

He turned his head a bit to far, and met the eyes of the stranger.

Time to go.

Finnegan straightened. He began to quickly walk in the vicinity of his red 70 Chevy Nova, but he could feel the presence of the man behind him. The hairs on the back of his neck stood, and he broadened his step slightly.

He risked a glance behind him. The man from inside the store wasn't alone now; two more had joined him. All three seemed equally muscular, and each was at least six feet tall. And they didn't look too happy.

Through his peripherals, Finnegan caught two more men, both flanked on his sides a good amount of distance away. There was a slight bulge in one of their pockets that the owner took great care in not moving.

Finnegan had a funny feeling he knew what it was.

He turned right, down an alley between two tall buildings, only to be met with a dead end.

The men were already at the alleyway's entrance when he turned around. They approached with slow, overly exaggerated steps, obviously trying to be menacing, but it only made Finnegan laugh.

"I wouldn't laugh if I were you," one snarled, revealing several broken and rotting teeth inside his mouth.

Finnegan remembered something his mother had told him once when he was younger; If you give something intimidating a simple name, it makes it less scary. Sure, he was five at the time, but it worked.

He decided to call this one Bob.

One of Bob's friends - he'll be Jim - took a step closer. Finnegan took a step back. "Mistress told us to bring you in. So, we're bringin' you in."

Finnegan rolled his eyes. "What makes you think I'll come with you?"

The third one, Carl, pulled out a gun and pointed it straight at his heart. "We have our ways."

"I think I'm good."

A second later, Finnegan was pulled into a headlock, both of his arms trapped behind him and Bob's chunky arm around his throat. "Looks like we're gonna have to do this the hard way."

Finnegan couldn't help but notice the man's foul breath as it blew against the back of his neck. "Dude, do us all a favor and get a breath mint."

Bob growled and tightened his hold. Finnegan didn't flinch; he didn't want to give them the satisfaction. He grinned, murmuring, "Or not."

Bob began to trek up the alley, leading his comrades, dragging Finnegan all the while. Finnegan took notice of the off-balance steps, how Bob seemed to be a bit hesitant on his right side, using the brute strength of his left to compensate for it.

Bob's fellow thugs didn't pay attention as they walked; he's been captured, what's the point? One of them pulled out a walkie-talkie-esque gadget, placing it against his ear.

"Johnson? 'Ey, we got the Whitman kid, where we gotta take 'im? Nah, didn't even put up much of a fight, we-"

Finnegan kicked Bob's right knee harshly, hearing the tiny snap as the bones dislocated. Bob's grip on him loosened, and Finnegan drive his elbow into the man's side. Bob went down with a huge plop, clutching his knee and - quite comically - screaming like a girl.

Two more of the gorilla men approached him from opposite sides, and Finnegan merely stepped forward to avoid the attack. Just as he suspected, the duo was too boneheaded to stop themselves before they collided with each other. They too fell hard, much like Bob had.

These men were too idiotic to even come close to defeating him. He had way too much experience in fighting to compare.

A shot fired, coming so close to Finnegan's head he felt the breeze of it zip through the hair by his left ear. He ducked and charged Carl, who tried to shoot once more before he was tackled by Finnegan. The younger man wrestled for the gun, slamming it down into his assaulter's temple when it was achieved. Carl went limp, unconscious instantly.

Finnegan stood, wiping his sweaty hands against the fabric of his jeans. Jim, the last member remaining, was before him, a look of mild impression on his face.

"Nice job, kid. Most people in our entire clan can't even do that."

Finnegan wanted to scoff. He held it back, knowing that it wouldn't help the situation. "What do you want with me?"

Jim threw his head back and laughed. It sounded like nails on a chalkboard. "Truthfully, I don't know. She's the one that wanted you. Bring him to me alive, she says. If it were me, I'd have you killed in an instant. Don't need anymore kids around here."

It was moments like this that left Finnegan speechless. After all, what was one to say when he's told people want him dead? And who was this Mistress they kept referring to? Finnegan needed more information, and he intended to get it.

He lifted the gun in his hands and Jim held his hands up in surrender. On the underside of his black jacket was a design - an intricate mixture of purple and green swirls that Finnegan recognized as the symbol for Maleficent's Loyalists.

He took a step back, never once taking his eyes off Jim's face. The man was smirking, as if he knew what Finnegan was about to do. "You can run, I won't harm you, not today at least. But remember this; there's only so many hiding places in this world."

That was when Finnegan whirled around and sprinted in the alternate direction.


"And exactly why are you packing again?"

Finnegan stuffed another shirt into his backpack. He couldn't afford to pack everything, no, it would only hold him down. He needed to have the advantage of speedy traveling, and he had to pack lightly to do that.

"Because, Dill, I'm leaving."

Dillard's eyes widened, then he laughed. "Alright, who's car did you steal now?"

"Dill, I'm serious. I'm leaving."

Dillard didn't speak for the next few minutes, and soon left the room, leaving Finnegan alone to his thoughts. He suspected Dillard was mad at him, as his friend never returned to the room even after he had finished and made his way out towards the front door.

What he wasn't expecting, however, was Dillard waiting at the exit for him, a bag of his own slung over his shoulder.

"What," he stated as Finnegan joined him, "did you honestly think I was gonna let you leave by yourself?"

"You have to, Dill. You weren't there today." He opened the door and froze, not facing his friend. "You don't have people after you for doing absolutely nothing."

A hand made its way onto Finnegan's shoulder. He turned, eyes meeting Dillard's, a solemn look on his usually childlike features. "That's the reason I have to go. What kind of friend would I be if I just let you go out there to your possible death?"

Finnegan smiled, a real, ear-splitting grin that he hadn't used in a long time. "A pretty bad one, I'd say."

Dillard laughed and shoved him out the door. "Get on, don't want anyone else chasing us out. Next time it'll be the old cat lady across the street."

As they snuck their way through the shadows of their street, Finnegan couldn't help but wonder how they were going to make it. Their backpacks contained only things for survival - flashlights, blankets, some spare batteries and matches, and miscellaneous small items from the kitchen. The only clothes they had were the ones on their backs.

It would be difficult, extremely so. Finnegan and Dillard weren't exactly known for their skills outdoors. One thing was for certain, though: there were two new Rogues in the Resistance.

...

Okay, so from now on I'm going to try to update this story every Monday, if I can. But when season starts, it's probably going to get a lot harder to do that, so bear with me.