Wilder

Clickity-Click

"What do you mean she told us the wrong building?!" Jones was ready to help the wall's paint deteriorate some more.

"I knew it. Janine would never just give out answers like that." Jenny grumbled.

"She must have. I'm up to date with my father's news, and there has to be a meeting here every Wednesday!" Brock insisted, wondering if to commence a path or wait.

"And why, pray tell, did you not speak up earlier?"

"This again?" Jenny blushed, secretly hoping the repulsive energy between them could render her useless and malignant so Brock could bring her to life. He even generously offered his shoulder as a pillow for the night they camped out, along with his only jacket as a blanket. None of that was necessary, since she still had Jones to protect her and the fires the homeless had kindred wafted enough heat to warm them up. She was used to sleeping on the streets by now, but she could never go back to feeling like it was the only way to sleep; uncomfortable, often rainy and cold. Although it was a dangerous neighborhood, the conditions weren't all that bad apart from the lack of hygiene.

"Which side does she think she's playing on? Yesterday she was all about me, and today she plays by P.C's side."

"Dad, are you jealous?" Jenny laughs, "Mom's been dead. For a long time now. What does a ghost have to lose?"

"Nothing! Absolutely nothing! That is why she can haunt whomever she wants and deliver whatever information she wants. Supernatural beings of the sort love messing with the mortals. Especially when creating twisted conflicts like this."

"Is there any way we can summon her?" Brock studied his fingers.

"She's been dead for too long to be kept under the chains of hell, lad. She can come and go as she pleases. It would have the same effect as calling her on her phone; she would most definitely deny that call." Out of the semi-vacant horizon, then emerged a miracle. A bloke, around Jones' age, cloaked in all black apart from his white wolf-like hockey mask came running in an approach to them. They scrambled, putting their masks on and respecting the tradition of never seeing others' true identity.

"I am number six hundred and seven. I have been sent by Alpha zero thousand to collect you guys." The guy was panting. According to Jones' he wasn't a very old member to the organization. One is given a number rank according to your loyalty and tasks; the smaller the number the more experienced and loyal you were. He seemed to be trying really hard to speak in code, but his struggle was vivid. Jones cleared his throat.

"Nice to meet you, six hundred and seven. I am forty five, this is my offspring, ninety eight, and our good friend nine." It was easy to make up a couple of number-ranks. Jones made sure to pick all the numbers of those who have died, from his records. That way no impersonations would occur, since no one ever paid attention to what number was valid and what wasn't. The bloke nods curtly, extending a hand to shke with everyone hesitantly, then changing his mind.

"Six hundred eighty five saw a bunch of masked people, that could belong to us, down the street. Are you sure you're forty five and high ranks as such?" Jenny could almost see the way he raised his eyebrow in suspicion through the mask.

"We've had personal issues to take care of, in order to conceal the organization's name, and have heard rumors of the meeting being...transplanted."

"Transplanted?" His eyes grew, "Oh, I see. I apologize for the inconvenience, do you know the source of these rumors personally?"

"Listen, chump," Brock grabs him by his collar and growls, "you think you're some kind of big shot. We know how things are done around here, so stick your nose in someone else's business and bring us to the headquarters." The guy manages to squeak an okay, Brock finally receiving a look of pride from Jones behind six hundred and seven. Jenny was amazed at how brutal everyone was to each other. Maybe there's something in the masks...she thought. The building wasn't in better shape then the one they stopped by last time. This one had a number plate, however, that read "the real 13"; only minuscule scratched under the street's name. As Brock pointed out, there was no front door. It looked like the front of a building, but instead of a door, the wall commenced. It managed to fool so many people; like a perfect looking image that seemed to good to be true, yet no one was capable of pointing out the errors. There was a even more broken-looking door; it's fragile hinges were holding on to functionality by one thin thread. That was their entrance. Well, it is technically not a front door...the noise it made when it slammed shut, for which Jenny apologized, was loud enough to light their way up the hallway. There was no ground floor, and that tied to Pierce's fear of front doors. It was just steps. Endless amounts of stories.