Prologue It was a hot, muggy night in the inner city, the kind of evening when most folks stay inside their homes sweating in front of the air conditioner and struggling in vain to fan themselves with last week’s copy of TV Guide. Inside the little pub two televisions alternately blared out last night’s football scores and the evening news. For the most part the bar was empty except for a couple of old timers that didn’t speak or move except to swill from their glasses of lukewarm beer. The bartender, a man with a shiny pate and a few yellow teeth left in his mouth, wiped down the countertop with an old rag. He, like the old timers, had a sallow appearance which was enhanced by his five o’clock shadow and the dirty apron he was wearing.
The only person that stuck out of the small crowd was a young man in the far corner hunched over a little tumbler of scotch, squeezing his fingers tight around the glass to keep his hands from shaking. His age and appearance made him stand out in more than one way. His clothing was too clean-cut for a regular of this hole-in-the-wall pub: a pair of black slacks and a knit dark gray turtleneck that looked new and fairly expensive and loafers that were oiled so they shone. The young man’s appearance was haggard and he had red-rimmed eyes, but otherwise his dark hair was well-groomed and he only had the faintest trace of a five o’clock shadow. The bartender glanced up at the young man with eyes the color of dirty dishwater and asked gruffly, “What’s ’a matter with you, kid? You look like hell.”
The young man’s head snapped up and his blue eyes flashed. “Mind your own goddamn business, barkeep, and I’ll mind mine.” The bartender grunted in reply, moving off down the bar to refill one of the old timer’s mug.
No more than five minutes had passed when another man entered the bar. Unlike the dark-haired man, this one looked fresh and alert, his long platinum hair tied back in a ponytail. The dark-haired man looked up and a look of recognition passed over his face, then anger. He stumbled up from the bar, staggering towards the white-haired man and said in a fierce voice, “What the hell are you doing here, Zechs?”
Zechs grabbed the dark-haired man firmly by the arm, helping him keep his balance. His other hand he slipped into his pocket as he pulled his companion towards the door. “Nice to see you, too, Heero. We need to talk, old friend. Outside.”
“No,” he replied, shaking his head rapidly. “No, let me go! Damnit!” He raised a hand hit the side of Zechs’s head, a blow which was easily deflected because Heero was clumsy, his head fogged with alcohol.
The bartender glanced up at the Zechs and the struggling Heero, saying gruffly, “Take this outside, both of you. I don’t need your bullshit this late at night.”
Zechs nodded graciously, pulling Heero another step towards the door. “I understand. My friend is very drunk, isn’t he? I’ll just be getting him home now.” With that he gave Heero a final yank and pulled them both outside into the hot night, letting the pub’s door bang shut behind them. With an iron grip that made Heero cry out in pain, Zechs hauled the dark-haired man into the alleyway and threw him against the wall, letting him crumple into the garbage.
Leaning down, his grabbed Heero by his collar and lifted him up, the cordial grin gone from his face. “Quite a scene you caused, old friend. When I say we need to talk, it means we need to talk. Now, are you going to be civil and engage in a polite conversation, or do I have to persuade you?” There was a flash of steel in the dim light filtering down from the street lamp. Heero’s eyes widened a little in confusion when he felt a cool blade pressed against his throat. He went stiff, doing his best to hold still so he wouldn’t cut himself.
“I’ll talk.”
“Good. What can you tell me about this girl?” Zechs withdrew a picture from his breast pocket, flashing it before Heero’s eyes. He blinked groggily and tried to focus on the girl. Blonde hair, blue eyes, pretty face, and a sad expression…
“I don’t know her.”
“Bullshit!” Zechs’s fist slammed Heero in the gut, catching him as gasped and curled over in pain. His voice silky smooth, Zechs murmured into Heero’s ear, “Now, we’re going to try this again. What can you tell me about this girl?”
Heero coughed raggedly, trying hard to focus through his pain-fogged mind on the picture of the girl Zechs was holding. Come to think of it, she did look familiar. What was her name again? “R… Relena. That girl’s name’s Relena Darlian.”
“Yeah. Where is she, asshole?” Zechs urged, once again pressing his blade against Heero’s neck.
“I don’t know,” Heero stammered, grunting when Zechs pressed the blade harder against his neck. “I swear to God, I don’t know! Last time I saw her she was with this guy named Treize—Treize Khushrenada, at this party downtown. Haven’t seen her since. She could be dead for all I know.”
“I see…” Zechs looked thoughtful a minute, lessening the pressure of the blade against Heero’s throat. “Any idea where Khushrenada was headed?”
“No idea. Look, I’ve told you what I know. Will ya let me go now?” Heero’s heart was racing, stimulated by the narcotics and alcohol rushing through his veins. The alleyway had a nightmarish quality in his vision, as did the white-haired man that held dominion over his fate.
“I think not,” Zechs replied coolly, quickly tucking the picture back in his pocket. “You see, you know I’m looking for this girl, and that information could come back to haunt me later on. You realize my problem, don’t you?”
Heero nodded quickly, glancing left and right. He was beginning to shake and tremble now, a bit of drivel coursing down his chin. “Y-yes, I understand peeerrrfectly…” His speech was slurred.
Zechs raised a creamy brow, watching Heero hyperventilate and convulse. He wrinkled his nose as the dark-haired young man vomited on his sleeve, kicking him aside as he went into seizures, shaking and rolling in his own filth. Heero released his bladder, the liquid darkening his black slacks.
When he laid still, Zechs wiped his sleeve off on the back of Heero’s stained turtleneck and checked his pulse to make sure he was dead. For good measure, he slit the dark-haired young man’s throat, tossing him aside into the gutter, and stood after wiping off his knife.
Thoughtfully, the white-haired man reached into Heero’s pocket and pulled out a small vial holding it up to the light and examining it. “Type K,” he read aloud. Pocketing the vial, he glanced one last time at the corpse and then walked out of the alley, heading casually down the street.
As the white-haired man faded from view, a little street rat poked its nose out of from under a grate, sniffing the fresh meat. Squeaking, it signaled the others of its family to come and join the feast. ~TBC~
Kira Maxwell
KiraxMaxwell@msn.com