Incomplete Flash Two

Antler smiled; the sun was finally — after all that darkness — coming out.

The treetops were gaining definition in the ghostly and dim blue light as they quietly and carefully pushed through the undergrowth. Out beyond the broken bunkers and the alleyway of tombstones was a checkpoint Antler had three more finger-widths to reach — forty five minutes on a clock’s face. Those few remaining minutes before Shackle would disappear into some sort of unassuming vehicle and leave Antler to whatever sad fate would befall them ouside of the familial hands of “The Wild Spree.”

“Wild” just about nailed it; those fuckers had shown up middle of this last goddamn night and jammed poor Shackle in the likes of a plastic bag, telling via shoddy handwritten note form, that Antler had until the shipment went out to bring seventeen kilos to the Spree Jamboree — a nicely coded name for their sloppy HQ.

The weight had to be adjusted on Antler’s sore back, but the smile persisted. Because Antler knew something the Wild Spree had surely forgotten, because Shackle would, despite being sedated, be alive still, and because Antler had a thirty minute jump on these unseasoned blackmailers. Safety for Shackle would be primary, so after a brief act to set the scene the way they wanted, Antler’d pull out their ace. Seventeen kilos it’d weigh out on their fucking scales — you bet — seventeen kilos of not Ebony Bliss, but gunpowder; it was a common mistake.

There was no way these rookies would dig further than an inch into hard packed packages, so theoretically, there was no way the match test would succeed. Even if someone had tipped these kids off, getting to the core of the betrayal still gave time enough for Antler to get the jump, and thanks to the sun the jump would be a hell of a lot easier to plot.

Antler sweatingly checked their weapons as they picked up the pace through the weeds. Knife, taser, two canisters of tear gas, three flashbangs — well, two of which were legitimately good, and a syringe full of hydrochloric acid if Antler got close enough to Remote. But that was really wishful thinking, flight — with Shackle in tow, of course — would have to be the approach if the betrayal was discovered.

But what if it’s not? Then revenge: hydrochloric acid style would prvent futher nabbings by these asshats — bitternness, hatred, blind intensity all agreed together; a perfectly stupid trifecta. Having stayed up all night was keeping the more rational side of Antler kind of intoxicated, hence the syringe at all. Well, there is is — thought rational and hell-bend Antler together — the complex; let fate and the sunlight decide the future.

A dirty, rusting, and dented truck was parked on the side, seemingly out of sight of anyone, but Antler knew better than to trust appearences here.


Written, sentence by sentence, by Rei + Ori

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