The Sigil Of Fire Part I: Escape from Därkridge

Downpour

Droplets of rain bounce off the pavement. The reworked remains of what used to be industrial buildings and apartment blocks line a grey skyline while the burnt orange sun breaks through the cracks, and overhanging walkways connecting the shacks and small houses above ground level as the ball of fire sets.
"Damn this rain." A smooth faced, tight skinned man no older than fifty stomps through a packed street, while taking long puffs from a thin cigarette stuffed between his pursed and scarred lips.
Reaching a building standing untouched and alone, he swings the heavy oak door open and dodders in after flicking away the burnt down ends of said cigarette. He haphazardly dumps his filthy stained jacket on an old rack, hanging together by splinters and luck. Choosing to ignore the mouldy and peeling wallpaper, he pushes the next door open.

In the centre of the room, there is a long table with a bloodstained tarp over it and above it, a long pole extending all around the room with some curtains in the left corner. In the right corner, theres a cabinet, filled to the brim with empty bottles, decanters and reeking of alcohol, so pungent the fumes alone could have someone wasted in moments. Pressed against the wall in line with the door is a long, metal desk with filing cabinets on either side. Kicking the chair beneath the desk out, he throws himself down, kicking over the empty glass bottles lying at his brown steel capped boot.
He sighs, devoid of any emotion. Picking the still intact bottle up and throwing it across the room into an open trash can. Sighing, he folds his arms and leans back slightly in the chair. Stretched out and relaxed. "Christ..." the man picks up and inspects a name plate, now removed from the table. "Dr. Trent Croyl. I am In the right place." He says, as he readjusts the collar on his turtleneck and rolls his sleeves above the elbow.

Just then, the door swings open again and a man, looking to be around a similar age, casually strolls into the room. All of a sudden the atmosphere seems to change, feels noticeably cold. An icy chill runs up the back of the man, and his hands begin to shake. He is pale faced, with long white streaks dashed all throughout his hair.
What felt like an eternity was only seconds, as this pale person turns another shade of white completely.
"K-Kalex..Kalex Rhyne?" He whispers as his whole body now trembles.

"Been a while, Croyl." Kalex stands from the chair, stuffing his hands into his charcoal cargo trousers. "Whats it been? Seventeen, maybe Eighteen years? I see you're still doing...whatever fucked up shit you do?"
Kalex slowly paces around the surgical looking room. Croyl stands in complete silence before opening his mouth slowly. "L-Look about Cassie I" Before the doctor can finish Kalex brutishly kicks the surgeons table, swinging and creaking its hinges. "Don't you even finish that sentence! I dont wanna hear you even mention her name!" Kalex clenches his fists hard enough the veins pop through the skin in his hands and arms. "Ok, ok..." Croyl meekly shuffles to his desk, slipping his hand onto the drawer handle. "So, you clearly have it in for me. You hate my fuckin' guts."

"Point being?" Kalex jams his hands back into his pockets. "My point," Croyl continues, "Is why are you here? If you hate my guts so badly then what the hell do you want with me?" He now grasps the drawer handle tighter. "You know Croyl," Kalex sighs, running his hand through his greying hair. "When i needed you, you failed me. More than once. I dunno. Maybe im just a glutton for punishment. But I've got a wild notion."
Croyl, still clutching the same drawer handle begins to slowly pull it forward. "And what may that be?"
"I wanna get outta this fuckin' hell hole." Croyl lets go of the drawer. Turning, he faces his former friend confused. "I dont follow? How does you trying to get the hell out of dodge affect me?"
Kalex shrugs empty. "Well i think ive gotta figure a  way out, or ways to make it easier to escape or cause some vulnerability in the Citadel or something. Y'know, investigate it like the good old days. But i was never a one piece wonder was i? Always had good ol' Trent with me. Brains and Brute. Always seen as the useless lunkhead. So fuck it. You owe me more than a few, so the way i see it you can consider this a downpayment for the forty thousand favours you owe me."  Kalex sits on the surgical top, putting another cigarette end in his mouth. "Hey woah, no smoking i've still got a business to run."