The Savages

Chapter 21: The Forgotten Piece

Rebel watched the flame of his miniature handgun lighter flicker mesmerisingly, dancing on its own accord. Blue and orange fought each other for dominance, entangling into a mess of disgruntled colours, matching his mood immaculately. He could hear the low rumble of voices reverberating through the wall he leaned back on. One belonged to Teemu, he was almost sure. The other could have been Perseverance. It was difficult to distinguish between the voices of his brothers when they all sounded the same. It made him wonder distantly how Teemu knew who to yell at when conflict arose, and they weren't physically in the same room.

Rock on, rock on
Drive me crazier
No serenade, no fire brigade
Just pyromania, c'mon

"What do you want?" Rebel sang along to the music flowing through his black Audio-Technica headphones, flicking the burning flame with his bare thumb and index finger. "What do you want? I want rock 'n' roll. Long live rock 'n' roll."

To his immense gratification, the flame stayed on top of his thumb when he lowered his other hand, lying it flat across his stomach. The hind legs of the wooden chair he sat in remained firmly planted to the floor, unmoving even when he shifted around uncomfortably multiple times during the early hours of morning.

Kasperskies rolled on to his right side on the far margin of the large room, eyes sealed composedly shut. His long, frizzy tawny mane looked dull and lifeless in the twilight, shadowing half of his soft-featured face. Rebel checked up on him at regular intervals to ensure he was still breathing, slouching in abatement each time. In his precarious state, Rebel knew it was crucial. Teemu would fret over him regardless, whether or not any of them helped along the way.

He shook out his hand, watching the flame die instantaneously. Sometimes he felt the exact same way as his element: suffocating without the oxygen required to keep his strength at optimal levels. Barely anything ever got under his skin, but seeing his brother broken and battered at the hands of pure evil took the cake. He could feel the consequence of his anger burning fiercely through his veins, wanting to erupt into something physical. If not for Kasperskies sleeping as soundly as a log a few metres away, he would give into his virulent desires and torch the closest thing to him. Which happened to be the blue and silver striped curtains framing the casement window.

Pale moonlight poured in through its polished surface, transforming the alluvial Bakers Creek carpet white. Some of it caught sections of Rebel's hair, tinting it coffee brown. While it was sufficient enough to help calm him, he still felt on edge, as though he was mere seconds away from snapping at the next poor soul to walk through the door.

Exhaling a long sigh through his lips, he thumbed the stop button on the side of Slate's Walkman, ceasing the legendary Def Leppard song as it entered the third verse. It was then he became increasingly aware of a disturbance in the room, and lifted his head toward Kasperskies' bed.

Slate leaned tentatively over the single mattress, resting his hand soundlessly on the wooden headboard. His dark eyes traced Kasperskies from head-to-toe, examining every molecule as if searching for one out of place. After a minute had elapsed, he straightened his posture and turned, pausing when he noticed Rebel staring at him.

"Good morning, prince," Rebel greeted politely. "Are you usually up this early?"

He ran a hand through his hair, sweeping the sides of his neck in a disarray of short, dense strands. Fastened around his forehead was the same bandana he always wore, imprinted with a traditional light grey design. Several longer sections dangled over his temples and eyes, half-concealing them from view. Hugging the defined muscles in his torso was a black tight-fitting tank shirt, worn underneath a black trench coat. A pair of loose-fitting, extensively ripped jeans hung low from his hips, showing patches of the skull and crossbones leggings beneath.