Song of the Firebird

Thirty

A/N: This chapter contains strong language and depictions of violence that may be upsetting for some readers.

The contents of the fridge were being emptied one by one. Soon, they would need an errand boy to the 7-Eleven store, two blocks away.

The men slept in twos, cuddling, sleeping after making a huge deal out of a few artisanal diamonds, without a single interference by either cops or another gang. The fact that they escaped death in a matter of minutes exhausted them to the core. Few others were cheering and placing bets on the two amateur boxers, who looked no more than twenty, in the ring. Clad in only shorts and gloves, the youth took enough breaks in between the rounds, neither of them willing to give up. They roared whenever they landed a hit on the other.

The entire hall reeked of alcohol and smoke. It's not that they were given decent choices.

Ryder was deep in his conversation with one of the men who just escaped a raid in his house. The latter was pouring over whether to continue working on his current project under Kirk or take menial tasks like the former.

Ever since Kirk's outburst at the alley, Ryder feared to take even a medium- level task. He volunteered to check on their targets without arousing suspicion and gather intel, whenever necessary. One more black mark on him, he would have to relocate his home permanently, six feet under the ground. However, he was waiting for gullible support and insurance, anything, without any of Kirk's help.

At the time the men took a break from their chatter, the boxing ring was empty and one of the youths, badly beaten with two black eyes, was hailed victorious and was carried around the ring. Ryder let out a stifled laugh. Scenes like that were so rare in his gang. He looked over to the cubicle. Kirk was immersed in his laptop, his one hand on the cursor and the other holding a can of Asahi. Asahi. The boss is in the best mood, he thought. Ryder recalled when he saw a rookie punched ruthlessly for getting the team, Guinness, by the boss man himself.

Ryder decided to wait until Kirk took leave, so that he could collect his transducer back, concealed on the insides of the black plastic paperclip.

The crowd around the boxing ring began to disperse and only a few men remained in the hall. When his companion bid him farewell for the night, Ryder scanned his surrounding for any possibility of being interrupted. When the snores hadn't stopped, he moved to the punching bag on the other side of the hall, that would help him with a peek into what Kirk's up to recently.

Patting his pants around his knees, Ryder left his seat and darted to the darkest corner of the hall. The stench of mould along the crooks did not settle well with his nasal passages. He grabbed white spandex bands and wrapped them with much care around his palm and the fingers. Glancing sideways at the still Kirk, he clutched his fingers harder and imagined the portrait of that stranger in the mall. Then, the punches followed.

As the personal grudge began swallowing him from his insides, the sound of the punches reverberated in the now silent hall. The hallucinations began to haunt him. It must be the alcohol, he thought. Blinking his eyes, he concentrated on the sand bag.

Personal failures and regrets were always the ever persistent ones. Upon confrontation, the probability of getting out of their hold completely was few and far between. Besides, they were the constant reminders of how f*cked up we were once. People might show signs of denial, fake-assuring themselves that they were okay. They might be, but when the moment they discarded their short short-lived mask, they tend to expose their inner exhausted self.

Ryder was feeling the same way.

Two figures loomed from the darkness. One took the form of Kirk, and the other, that stranger. Before them, a thin sheet of fear and trepidation dusted over his pride.