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Chpt 1~ Hail Vodka! Rip off The Russians!

BRAT.

667 CASTLE RD, Ask for the head of the science department. I've sent him a letter.

Don't fuck this up.
Although I can't see how you could possibly fuck this up.

Fuck up and I'll kill you.

Take a taxi and I'll kill you.
You can't afford it.
You still have to pay my debts.

Lots of love,
Cross.
PS. If you over feed the mutt, I'll kill you.
PPS. If you under feed the mutt I'll kill you. The mutt's worth more than you.

The aforementioned 'mutt' panted heavily as he sat down in the relative shade of his master's shadow. His soft furry tail, slightly tufted at the end with golden fur, was carefully arranged so that no part of it ventured off the shaded concrete on to the pavement in the sun that was considerably hotter. A youth, the provider of the puppy's shade, ran a gloved hand through his white hair as he studied the scrap of grubby paper before closing his eyes for a reason that might have been akin to despair. He ran his tongue across dry lips as salty moisture shined above his top lip and beaded slightly in the corners of his mouth. He licked them away, wrinkling his nose slightly at the salt but still enjoying the taste.

The puppy whined slightly beside him and wriggled uncomfortably, the hot pavement beginning to get to him. The puppy's complaints brought the youth back to the problem at hand and he sighed, looking down at his puppy for a moment before studying the paper again. He swore quietly and gave a sigh.

"Damn it Cross, could you leave me a more obscure message than this?" The youth hissed slightly between his teeth and looked up the length of the long road, the traffic wallowed, the car exhaust was making him feel sick, the traffic lights placed at every junction changed colours in an odd pattern, never letting more than a few cars pass each time. The tall glass buildings seemed to shimmer like mirages, the concrete buildings, ugly, squat and annoying seemed to wilt, sagging under the weight of the sun's glare. Mixed in with the modern skyscrapers and 1980's style concrete high-rises; the low sandstone buildings with their graceful columns, intricate carvings and elegantly decorated roofs the colour of oxidized green, seemed to radiate cool. The spaces between the columns on the front steps promised a shady place to sit, something aided by the hi-rises that blocked the sun at all times but midday.
He turned to check the number of the building beside him as the puppy at his feet gave another whine and began to wriggle even more vigorously, as the heat began to become slightly more painful, the youth was oblivious to the puppy's complaints.

One hundred and sixteen. Building one hundred and six fucking teen. He thought bitterly. There was no way in hell that he was going to walk 554 house lengths. No way in hell. But the message that Cross had given him was clear, ...I'll kill you. You can't afford it. You still have to pay my debts. He hesitated, still unsure, although Cross didn't usually try to carry out his numerous death threats, there was still that slim chance...
The puppy gave a sudden and high pitched yelp of distress and leapt up, whimpering in pain; the concrete pavement had become too hot to bear. The puppy danced around in agitation, what had been hot on his fur and skin, burnt his soft paw pads unbearably, so painfully he could not stand still. The teenager glanced down at his puppy and, seeing the way that the puppy was dancing around franticly, gave a slight cry of distress. He dropped his sports bag and bent on one knee, ignoring the heat that burnt through his pants and gathered the puppy up in his arms. The puppy whimpered once more as the youth hissed in remorse as he inspected the puppy's burnt paw pads.

"Fuck that," He muttered, he didn't care what Cross had said. That was the final straw. He was going in a taxi; He could always retrieve the money in some shady casino later anyway, just as long as his 'old man' disguise was completely foolproof. It was ridiculously tiring to have to find another casino if his disguise was seen through. Although that had happened only once, it wasn't his fault, how was he to know that old people didn't wear superman capes and masks when they went out gambling? He blamed Cross for that little blunder, after all it had been that womanising red head who told him that. But then again, seeing as he had never made it past the door, he didn't really count that as people seeing through his disguise, as he hadn't really been wearing one, unless you count a Superman costume as an appropriate cover. Holding the puppy with one arm, he used his right hand to open his bag and shuffle something's around to make room for his puppy, he pulled out a jacket and dumped it unceremoniously on the pavement before carefully placing his puppy inside the bag, zipping it up so the puppy could look out and move a little, but not much else. He tied his jacket around his waist and bent down to pick up his sports bag. The puppy strained to lick his face gratefully, he laughed at that and went to hail down a passing cab, biding the puppy to stay down and hidden. A taxi pulled up to the curb and he climbed in and sighed appreciatively. It was blissfully cool inside.

The driver didn't even look back as he began to log numbers into an electronic pad, muttering to himself as he did so. The teen carefully slid his bag between his feet, giving his puppy's head a caress before pushing the animal's head down. People weren't technically allowed to have animals in taxis, but the youth was not afraid to bend the rules or even break them in certain situations. At all others times the law was 'strictly observed" or something like that.

The driver finished fiddling around with his electronic pad and straightened up; placing his hands on the wheel, he drummed a one second finger-drum solo. Examining the choked traffic for an opening, the driver glanced in the rear mirror and asked. "Okay, where do you want to go?" except to the youth it sounded like 'Okey! Wh're doo youu wan' tuh go?" but he had no trouble deciphering what the taxi driver was saying, years of travelling with Cross had given the teen a gift for guessing what people were saying, whether it was in Mongolian or a slightly demented form of English. But on this occasion... He shone a brilliant smile at the driver; the teen had a feeling that the driver was speaking weirdly it to annoy him as the driver looked as capable of proper English as he was i.e. a lot.

It was at times like these when the teen followed the age old adage; "when in doubt, be obnoxiously polite". Cross had always followed a different view, "if you want something, seduce someone who has it until you get it from them". But most of the time Cross ignored the "if you want something" bit and had sex with the person in question anyway simply because he could. But the teen was not of the ilk as Cross and was polite to the person, rather than having sex with them.
"Would it be at all possible to be taken to number six hundred and sixty seven, Castle Road?" As the youth spoke, the driver seemed to do a double take, peering at the rear view mirror again, shocked he cried, 'You're not an old man, you're just a boy!"

The teens smile grew to a brilliant proportion, his hunch was correct; the driver was capable of normal speech. The driver's face flamed red, realising that he had just made light of the fact that he had been speaking strangely to annoy his passenger, not to mention that he'd thought that his passenger was an elderly man. The driver tried to cover his mistake, or at least amend it, stumbling for words. "Uh, um, sorry, it was just with your with hair that I, uh, um" The drivers face burned and the youth decided to take pity on the man, through his smile did not change. He did, however, feel a stab of vindictiveness and couldn't help but give a sly jab at the driver for first mistaking him for an old geezer and then a small kid. Short be might be, but he was no child. Not anymore. "It is no problem; I am often mistaken for an elderly male or a young child. I am well used to it." The teen gave no acknowledgement to the pinch in his words as the driver burned a deeper shade of crimson.
"Uh, yeah, Sorry about that." The driver cleared his throat awkwardly, tapping his fingers on the wheel of the cab nervously. The teen's softer side gave in and he softened his smile a little bit, deciding to let the uncomfortable moment pass.
"My name is Allen, Allen Walker. You are?"
The driver gave an easy smile, pleased that his passenger, or Allen as his name was, had let the moment pass so easily "Archie Seeker, but most people just call me Seeker."
Allen nodded slowly; Seeker had a simple air, and seemed to like practical jokes and slapstick comedy. He had the feel of a dog who wanted to do nothing better than to please. He was balding slightly and all the hours of sitting in a cab had given him a small beer belly. He also, judged Allen, probably suffered from some a very mild kind of hyper activity disorder, if only from the way he seemed unable to stop moving, even if it was just his pinkie finger. And speaking of unable to stop moving, Allen's puppy had started to wriggle. He placed a gentle hand on the top of the animals head; the puppy calmed down and stopped fidgeting. His burnt paws were obviously not painful enough to stop moving. The taxi lurched forward as Seeker found a gap in the floundering traffic; Allen had to fake a major coughing fit to mask his puppy's yelp of surprise.

Once in the main 'flow' of traffic, the taxi crawled along, a turtle in a dry river. It wasn't as fast as walking may have been, but hell was it easier and it gave Allen time to see the city that would be his new place of residence. He had stopped calling places home long ago, for him home would be where he had buried his heart. Allen's throat tightened and his face grew hot; his puppy's soft eyes gazed at Allen, worried about his master's sudden change of mood. Gladdened for the distraction and warmed by the care, Allen smiled gently at him. His liquid silver eyes gazed quietly into gentle brown ones. Timcampy had always looked out for him, but he did get a little nippy if you didn't feed him or pay him enough attention. Timcampy's ears pricked up, and he grinned back at Allen before disappearing back into the bag, reassured by his master's smile. Allen turned to look out the window, studying the people on the street and the buildings.

Quite frankly it looked much like any other major city Allen had ever been in, but there was one thing that he noticed, there were many more old sandstone buildings, some were on the edges of grassy squares full of tree's and statues, other were placed between glass corporate buildings. He also saw certain things that he just itched to paint, things like the flock of pigeons scattering in flight from a blue haired child in a school uniform who was wielding an odd looking umbrella or the small tree sapling growing in the facade of one of the sandstone buildings. This city was a strange mixture of old and new, weathered and derelict, shiny and modern

Unfortunately, all his painting gear was in his sports bag, underneath Timcampy and there was no way to get at them without moving the puppy. Allen only ever carried what was absolutely necessary, the only thing that deviated from this rule was his painting stuff, and those he refused to leave behind. None of it was of very good quality especially the brushes. He had once tried to make his own brushes from Timcampy's fur or locks of Allen's snow white hair, but in the end he had saved up to buy some cheap, kiddie, bristle brushes. They weren't very good for watercolour or even acrylic or oil paint, but better than nothing and he could take them from country to country, regardless of quarantine restrictions.

Allen had once dreamt of making a living from his paintings, but he had never been to art school and by the time he had finished a painting to a saleable standard and had managed to sell it, they were already being chased by debt collectors. Allen had had to turn to a more profitable way of making money. Fortunately for him, selling his body had never been an option, not with his...birthmark, besides the very idea of prostitution sent bile climbing up Allen's throat. Not that Cross had cared; he'd pay their rate and make them fall in love with him, so much so that they'd have sex without demanding payment. It was often then that Allen would go out to make money, it was better than listening to Cross and however many moaning bitches. Allen had long ago ceased to think of them as women.

Thinking about money made Allen wonder how much this taxi ride would cost, he wasn't sure if he had enough. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a battered wallet, the initials M.W could just be seen, faded almost to the point of invisibility. In one of the pockets a slip of yellowed, folded paper could just be seen. There was also a sketch of Timcampy looking even smaller than he did now, in one of the photo pockets. The rest of the contents of the wallet consisted of two ten and three five dollar notes as well as three dollars in coins. Allen counted these out and his heart clenched, he was in trouble; if he couldn't find some cash tonight, chances were that he'd be sleeping up a tree come nightfall. Cross had told him nothing about this science department or even what department it was of, it could be scientific testing on latex clothing in the Army for all Allen knew. But in the meantime, it looked like he had enough for the taxi fare. However, Allen just wanted to be sure.

He lent forward and reached out a gloved hand to tap Seeker on the shoulder but then changed his mind and leant back in the seat, lowering his hand and clearing his throat tentatively. Seeker turned his head slightly, still keeping his eyes on the road ahead. Allen spoke apologetically, dropping the butler polite tone he had used before hand, but still retaining a courteous manner. "Excuse me Mr Seeker,"
'Mr' Seeker interrupted cheerily, "Seeker, just Seeker. Mr Seeker makes me sound like an Eton schoolboy or some paedophiliac old geezer."
Allen gave a faint smile, pretending to share the joke. At any other time he would have managed a laugh, but he was straining to even smile right now. He had no idea what this place was like, still it was decent of Cross to actually give him an address this time. Allen had little fond memories of the time where Cross had packed him off to Mexico with a place to go to but nothing but a last name to find it with. He would be a lot less stressed when he found out what this science department was.
"Seeker" amended Allen, "could you tell me how much the fare will cost?"
"Uh, about eighteen dollars but," Seeker turned towards Allen and leaned in confidentially, knowing that the red light would not go green for about a minute or two, "you're British right?"
"Yes, why do you ask?" replied Allen cautiously and with no little suspicion, years of living and travelling with Cross had taught Allen to be wary of questions like the one that Seeker had just asked.
"I knew it!" Crowed Seeker, beaming and slightly exultant, "Any way, seeing as your British, fifteen dollars only."
Allen grinned, a true smile this time, relaxing at Seekers tone of voice. "Seriously? Wow, thank you Seeker, but may I ask why?"
Seeker shrugged and grinned widely. "Your accent's fucking awesome. Besides, you'll need it where you're going".
Allen stilled and the grin faded from his lips as he shared a wary look with Timcampy, his anxiety returned ten-fold.

Seeker pulled up in the drive of a very large and very swanky looking hotel. It was a curious mix of glass sky scraper and restored sandstone building. Limousines pulled in to the curved driveway almost after every fourth car, all the cars were shiny with names like Porsche, Rolls Royce, B.M.W just to name a few of the lower cost brands. Orange taxi's pulled up in a constant stream on the street. Allen had never hyperventilated before, but if he was about to start, it would be now.

Seeker swung around to look at his passenger merrily, unaware of any problems that Allen was currently having. "Well, we're here. The Black Order Hotel, widely acknowledged as being the jewel of the Millennium Hotel chain. The cheapest room is what, $4,000 a night or something; it's more than my wages. It's for the elite only but that shouldn't be a problem for you. Probably." Seeker looked at Allen and frowned; the teen was as pale as his hair, the strange, red, pentangle mark over his left eye stood out like blood on new snow. "Are you okay?" Seeker was beginning to suspect that something was wrong.
"Are you sure this is the right place?" Allen's voice was faint and slightly strained. His right hand was picking, compulsively so it seemed, at the cuffs of his left sleeve.
"Yep," nodded Seeker, "Unless my eyes deceive me, it is."
This was meant to be a joke as the number 667 was displayed in large gold writing right beside the Taxi but it fell slightly flat at the nonexistent laughter of his passenger.
"Thank you, so much" Allen managed a faint smile before he got out of the taxi dazedly, leaving the door open, before toddling off in the general direction of the front entrance.

Seeker watched him; the poor kid looked so shell-shocked that Seeker decided not to press him about the taxi fare. He could hike up the fare for some fat, rich, Russian. Seeker hated Russians but for some odd reason, loved vodka. He supposed that it was his mixed blood, German, Russian, Italian, and any of the 'slavians you could think of took residence in his veins. Must be why he had such a weird nature. Still, the only reason that he believed that Russia should have even been created in the first place was for its invention of vodka. Hail vodka, rip of the Russians was his motto, and god be thanked for that. He heard some frantic scratching and weird fabric/animal noises behind him, but ignored them as he watched the teen run into a bellhop, bash into some luggage and somehow make it through the rotating doors, ignoring the already open doors just beside them.

"Poor kid," muttered Seeker sympathetically, "it's as if he's never seen bellboys with gold buttons before". Reaching back to pull the passenger door shut, he rolled the taxi forward as a slow, slightly evil smile spread over his face, "Oh good, We eat tonight. My girlfriend will be pleased." Approaching his taxi were (joy to his heart) some rich, fat Russians.

Hail vodka, thought Seeker devoutly as he took a small sip from his battered silver jacket flask, and rip off the Russians.