Estranged

The District Head

On a desolate stroll through crowded streets, Gringe calmly took in the district, choosing to experience the truth of it, not just its numbers. Beneath starless skies, weak lamps and flickering neon provided feeble illumination, struggling to pierce the light fog that had seeped in with the night. Boots squelching in a rancid slush of garbage and waste that slicked over the cobblestones, he walked beneath the awnings of gambling dens, w*****g houses, mob headquarters, illegal armouries, and even a smuggler’s market. His hood hid his face but his eyes roved everywhere, taking it all in. If the owners of these establishments were this brazen, he shuddered at the things they must bother to hide. Nonetheless, he marched on.

Districts did not come as degenerate as Doranne, a consequence of which was the anxiety in the air, the distrust. Most faces he passed were hooded or concealed by some other fashion; the streets were packed but elbows did not graze; and a bulging pocket or hip suggestive of a hidden weapon was not strange. It was why whenever there was a disturbance, no one had to be notified.

Like now, when the flow of the crowd shifted. Something up ahead had caused the crowd to slow to a halt. Simmering murmurs grew from the people around him, each of them questioning, trying to crane their necks to find out what was going on, even as they hemmed in closer, tighter. Bodies pressed against Gringe from all sides, the air growing tense with heat and rising paranoia.

No sooner had a shiver crawled up his spine than the first shoves struck from behind, a wave of cumulated force that sandwiched them in a mash of bodies. Screams filled the air as Gringe braced himself, struggling to stay upright and not be swallowed by the unfolding stampede, grunting as his nose scrunched into someone else’s back.

“Doors are open! Bleed through the sides! Through the sides!”

Gringe whipped his gaze. True to the instruction, the doors of adjacent establishments had been drawn open, admitting people to diffuse the stampede before it grew any fiercer. The Irrhyian Blues loomed to his right, a neon image of a soaring swordfish flashing across the face of the four-storey-high gambling house.

Gritting and huffing, he pushed and tugged, battered by the massive press of bodies, clawing his way into the frenzied throng squeezing through the Irryhian’s double doors. Torso slamming into the doorway as he scraped through the entrance, Gringe moved along the plastered wall inside the Irrhyian’s lobby, forced deeper inch by inch as the room filled. The Irrhyian had been his destination anyway, but something niggled at him.

In the midst of catching painful breaths through his bruised chest and aching nose, he thought of one thing: what caused this? They had first been blocked off from the front, then harried from behind. It reeked too much of organization, of—

A blunt object dug into his lower back. Before he could adjust, the object twisted and the wall gave away from behind him. He plunged backwards in free fall. Large hands gripped him by the arms, arresting his fall, yanking him backwards. A thud and a click later, all in a flash, Gringe lay on the floor of a small room. A giant manned the door, bare bulging biceps glistening with sweat. Their eyes met and the giant nodded, gesturing at something behind Gringe.

He rose, turning cautiously away from the giant. In that swivel, he took account of the room, eyes widening as he realized what was happening. Bare and square, the room harboured five other people. To his right, sprawled across the tiled floor, were a woman and three men, unconscious. And behind, where the giant had pointed Gringe to, was the last person.

“Now, now. Behave and all you’ll get’s a lighter pocket and one stinging headache.” Lanky and mohawked, a boy carried a bio-scanner in one hand, and a pistol aimed lazily at Gringe in the other.

Gringe looked down at the boy, eyes hooded. He said nothing.

The boy peered past Gringe at the giant, sneering, “Oi, Blitz, care to take a pop first or…” his eyes focused back on Gringe, fingers flipping slickly, setting the pistol on a fancy twirl, “…naah, been itching to use this, and I think the mister here might just push me to it. If you don’t want me to bang a hole through your thick—” His words caught in his throat as Gringe lowered his hood, revealing his face. Aghast, the boy stumbled backwards, whispering, “Father’s forbid, Blitz, it’s the District Head!”

Gringe sighed at the raw panic that now filled the boy’s face. “What is your name?” he asked gently.

The boy croaked something; a strangled, barely audible sound.

“Your name, boy.” There was more steel in Gringe’s voice now, more authority.

“De-Delayne, sir. I promise I didn’t know it was you! I swear if—“

“It’s fine, Delayne. You’re in no trouble.” He paused. “Just take me to her.”

The boy swallowed, throat bobbing. He nodded at Gringe, wiping a trickle of sweat that rolled down his temple. “Alright, sir.” Delayne looked at the door. “Blitz?” he asked in a desperate plea. The boy’s face twisted in a scowl as the giant ignored him.

“Guess it’s just us two, then. Lead the way,” Gringe said to the boy.

Delayne nodded. Slotting the pistol into a side holster concealed by the ends of his jacket and the bio-scanner in his back pocket, the boy trudged towards the left corner of the room.

Gringe followed.

Delayne squatted before the top-leftmost square of four tiles. Backing Gringe, he withdrew something from his chest pocket and reached down, holding it a few inches over the centre of the tiles.

The boy had done well to hide what he held, but Gringe knew it had to be some sort of access key. Sure enough, a beep sounded three seconds later, and a mechanical hiss emitted from the floor. The tiles retracted into the wall, revealing a murkily lit flight of descending stairs.