2-

 

The bar known as The Hidden Flute squatted in one of the seediest areas of the already-seedy Vascun, a well-known, easy hangout for both the highest and lowest of the low. It was also one of the few places in the dying city that had rules and laws that were unbreakable. Although in no way a respectable business, it was infinitely respected as an establishment, being nicknamed “Truce” after an ancient town that had been built between Arven and Tormiad hundreds of years before, and had been burned down just as quickly.

 

It was a land of peace in a world of conflict. It was a haven in a world of danger. And, quite possibly the reason for its development in the first place, had quite possibly the best chocolate ice cream in all of Tormiad.

 

Experience had taught Locke Morningside to never let his guard down, and practically everything about his life exemplified it, including how he let loose. But, some days, a man just had to sit down and eat a quart of Hidden Flute Chocolate Chip.

 

Sprawled in his own booth (as it was usually reserved for him by Ange, the bartender’s adorable nine-year-old daughter who also had an enormous crush on him), Locke was taking out all his confusions and frustrations from the night out on the glass box that had originally been filled to the brim with the sinfully delicious brown concoction. His jacket had been tossed onto the other seat, ignoring the fact he was now showing his concealed knives because of the truce and instead attacking the ice cream with a single-minded fervor that any fencer would have been jealous of. His spoon parried the chocolate chip’s futile evasive roll with a violent passion, scooping it up into the metallic cradle and jamming his prize into a childishly pouting mouth.

 

“…what happened this time,” Palma, the resident mother hen and barmaid asked, frowning sympathetically down at the younger man who glared back up at her.

 

“Nothing,” he snapped…or, would have snapped had his mouth not been crammed with the unholy goodness that was Hidden Flute Chocolate Chip ice cream. In reality it sounded a bit more like “Nuffimpk.” But, Palma was used to this sort of behavior from the twenty-year-old expert thief and instead sat down on the other side of the booth, still frowning good-naturedly at him.

 

“Did you kill someone?”

 

He glared at her, and shoved another spoonful of chocolate bliss into his mouth. “No.”

 

“Did you hurt someone?”

 

Locke jabbed the spoon into his ice cream, breaking apart a loving chunk of chocolate. “No.”

 

Palma smiled. “You never could lie outright,” she sighed. “What happened?”

 

Seeing there was no way he’d avoid the interrogation, Locke just jabbed more ice cream into his mouth, and finally began to speak. “So, I was at work, and slip into an apartment like usual, except it was way too clean. Sterile. And there was this dead guy, only he wasn’t so dead as I was led to believe. I ended up jumping out a window, and the idiot followed me.”

 

Palma gaped at the chocoholic in front of her. “You JUMPED OUT A WINDOW?”

 

Locke just shrugged, taking a moment to mourn the fact he was most of the way through his ice cream. Palma moaned, her head sagging into already open and waiting hands. “You really shouldn’t do things like that, Locke. You’ll get yourself killed one of these days.”

 

“I know what I’m doing,” Locke added defensively, swallowing another gob of the divine dessert. “Why don’t you trust me on this? Honestly, I’ve never been caught once.”

 

“That’s because you JUMP OUT OF WINDOWS,” Palma hissed, almost making Locke wonder if she had a mood disorder or something.

 

“You would’ve too, if a gorgeous blood-covered guy just blinked up at you and started giving you advice on your stress level,” he muttered, eyes so intent on the bliss-inducing ice cream that he failed to see Palma’s rather devious expression.

 

“So, what’d this guy look like again?”

 

Locke snorted. “Bloody, dead, and girly.” He paused, spoon still stuck in his mouth. “Well, not REALLY girly. It was probably all the hair.”

 

A loud, obviously drunken sing-off began near the bar, and the two ignored it. The Hidden Flute couldn’t be completely separated from being a bar, regardless of the fact they sold more ice cream than alcohol…even though it mostly went to Locke. The two didn’t even look up at the ruckus.

 

“All the hair? What, like a beard? That doesn’t seem to girly to me,” Palma asked, and Locke chuckled.

 

“Nah. It was more like three feet of hair than a beard. Kinda surprising that everything but his hair was soaked in blood…” Locke frowned, stabbing the frozen concoction in front of him in a practiced, absentminded manner. “There was something WEIRD going on with that guy, Palma. Maybe I’m just missing something…”

 

Palma grinned. “Miss something? You?” She snorted. “That’s about as likely as you not finishing your ice cream.”

 

“Hey, I can stop any time I want,” Locke smirked, yet another spoonful entering his bloodstream. “It’s the nicotine I’m addicted to. Chocolate’s just an added bonus to my dull little life.”

 

Palma snorted. “The day your life is dull is the day I move to Arven.” She paused, brown eyes shifting so she wasn’t looking straight at her companion. “Hey, I almost forgot. Someone was asking for you.”

 

“By name or reputation?” Locke asked, not even bothering to look up from his meal.

 

“Reputation, of course,” she said, blinking at him, until it turned into a frown. “Don’t tell me you’ve been tossing your name around again-”

 

“Message?”

 

The woman rolled her eyes, and jerked a thumb towards a side table where Locke could see a man dressed in a black suit sat, fingers splayed against each other in front of a serious face. He snorted. “I usually don’t do government jobs, if you don’t remember,” he said dryly, and Palma shrugged.

 

“I told him that,” she responded. “And he said, ‘He’ll want to talk to me’.”

 

“Cocky bastard,” Locke grumbled, and Palma only nodded, not bothering to reprimand him for language when Ange wasn’t around, and especially not when she agreed. “Did you see his face?”

 

“Not very clearly, but he’s got a scar across his right eye,” she said.

 

The spoon clattered into the unfinished ice cream. Palma was staring at him now, and Locke could guess why. He tended to scare people when he was angry.

 

“Scar across his right eye, dark brown hair with a single streak of gray above his left ear, and missing a fingernail on his left hand?”

 

Palma nodded.

 

“Can I use the back door?”

 

Again, Palma nodded.

 

Locke grabbed his jacket from the other side of the booth, Hidden Flute Chocolate Chip ice cream remaining neglected on the table. “Was he asking for anyone else?”

 

Palma nodded, sensing the seriousness of the situation. “An assassin that moved here not too long ago. Not much of a reputation yet, but he’s definitely got skills.”

 

“You don’t know me,” Locke stated.

 

Palma sighed. “Don’t know who.” Locke nodded his approval, but before he could get up and leave, Palma grabbed his arm. “Who is he? What’s he want you for?”

 

“He’s Major General Grigorsen of the Western Garrison,” Locke said quietly. “And I have no idea why. He would have asked by name if he knew it was me…”

 

“You know this guy?” Palma asked, and Locke smirked bitterly.

 

“Remember that story about my uncle?” Palma nodded, and Locke motioned towards the man. “Meet my Uncle Grig.”

 

She breathed in sharply. “You mean-”

 

“Don’t do anything, don’t say anything, don’t BE anything,” Locke whispered quickly. “That man can eat you alive, and if he feels like it, that’s just what he’ll do.” Palma nodded briskly, and he gave her a quick smile. “Good luck, Palma.”

 

“Luck? Honey, I’m a barmaid. I don’t NEED luck- I’ve got experience.” She winked at him. “Don’t let the door hit you on the way out.”

 

Locke took another moment to simply smile at her, finally slipping out of the booth and tucking his jacket under his arm, walking towards the bathroom, and the not-uncommonly-used. The well-oiled hinges on the door swung open almost effortlessly, and with a slight sigh of relief the door closed behind him.

 

“You really that relieved?” An amused voice asked, and Locke jumped, shrieking, as the connection between the voice and the person smashed into him.

 

Maroon eyes glared at the speaker. “What the hell do you want, you corpse!”

 

And so it was, head tilted and smiling thinly at the thief. He was completely clean, blood-soaked clothing replaced with black shirt, black pants and the same white trench coat. Locke didn’t want to imagine how much work the non-deceased man had put into the refurbishment of it. The determination that required couldn’t help but amaze him.

 

“I’m not dead,” he said, still just lounging against the dirty building adjacent to The Hidden Flute.

 

Locke frowned. “You’re gonna get your coat dirty leaning against there.”

 

He chuckled. “It’s used to it.” And that damnable smile that just looked WRONG for some reason was bolted down firmly, and Locke couldn’t even begin to wonder why he cared. “What are you doing?”

 

His own glare was just as immoveable. “I was about to ask you that, dead man.”

 

“I was going inside, but then you suddenly appeared. Who am I to pass up an opportunity like this?”

 

He frowned. “What opportunity? All I’ll do is kick your ass again if you try something. And I didn’t steal anything anyway.”

 

“I know.” The white-haired man shrugged, and there was finally something in those unnervingly bright turquoise eyes. “That’s the opportunity. You’re a thief, but didn’t steal anything.” His head tilted slightly to the right, and Locke could make out the length of hair that swiveled with his head. “You’re intriguing.”

 

“…Huh?” Locke was confused. “What do you mean by that?”

 

The man chuckled again, and suddenly was at the door, opening it soundlessly. “See you around, Locke Morningside.” The door swung shut, leaving Locke alone in the alley.

 

For a while he just stood there, ignoring the now-constantly biting wind as he shrugged on his jacket. And then, he continued to stand, his mind swimming in ideas and theories, thoughts swirling about as if a turbine had been jammed into a tub of water and ice cubes.

 

Locke snorted, shaking his head clear. “I’m thinking too much,” he muttered to himself, and pulled out a cigarette as he began the walk back to his apartment.