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It wasn't as if he didn't know what was going to happen next but it didn't make doing it any easier.� Savouring the last, long toke of his cigarette, the young man left the stale urine-scented sanctuary of the 'phone box and went to meet with fate.
Turn the corner into the barely illuminated alleyway, take three strides across the pot-holed tarmac ... .� From within the decomposing labyrinth of garbage cans, a cat arched its back and hissed.� Right on time to the very second.� He paused to steady his nerves and wondered whether to have another smoke.� The feeling was there, scrabbling frantically through his lungs.� But he couldn't.� Not if this was going to play right.
Footsteps behind him.� Hesitate until he'd counted to three ... turn around and feign surprise.� Two gorillas in black trenchcoats waving a gun in his face, just like he knew there would be.� Words tripped off his tongue, were delivered with all the conviction of a ham actor playing 'Macbeth'.� How could he possibly show enthusiasm for something he'd said a thousand times before?
"No smart moves now, Cal,"� the smaller of the two growled.� "We've got you covered."
Boring, boring, boring.� Heard it all before.� The young man shrugged and raised his hands above his head, waiting for the exact moment to re-present itself.� The bigger man walked forward and forced him up against the wall.� Frisked him down, mumbled something about belonging body and soul to Black Air, blah blah blah.� Two minutes before he could have a cigarette - thirty seconds before the ugly bruiser turned away.� Counting down.
The big man lifted his head towards his companion.� "He's clean, Baker.� Tag him before - "
A niggling sensation of discomfort trickled across the big man's frontal lobes, cutting him off mid-sentence.� Pressure seemed to be building up within the confines of his skull, the sort of ear-popping weightiness one might experience diving beneath the sea.� Frowning, the operative lifted his fingers to his pulsating forehead and tentatively explored the inexplicable dampness pouring down his cheek.� Viscous, sticky ... like blood.
And his throat compressed in on itself in a blistering, choking spasm of thought, strangling the life from his body even as his facial orifices erupted with geysers of blood.� The big man's twitching corpse pitched forward onto the ground at the feet of his mortified companion.� Cal offered a little smile as he stepped closer to the survivor.
"Keep back!"� the operative was demanding, the gun shaking in his hands.� "Keep back or I'll shoot!"
Twenty-nine seconds before he could have a ciggie.� Cal, his chest pressed up against the barrel of the gun, raised his left hand and moulded his fingers into a revolver shape.� He imitated the sound of a hammer being cocked as he levelled his index digit at the older man.
"Oh yeah?� Well, guess what?"� The pretend trigger was pulled twice in rapid succession.� "Bang!� Bang!� You're dead!"
Another piece of trash thrown backwards into the dustbins, dead before he could even contemplate screaming.� Cal blew on his fingertip and made a show of holstering his imaginary gun.� Three seconds until he could have a smoke;� he watched them elapse on his wristwatch, his body held in the stasis field of pre-cognition.� Then, as the second-hand swept across the pre-destined section of the dial, the young man stood bolt upright and removed a carton of 'Camel' from his leather jacket.
Two days, four hours and twelve minutes before help would be coming.
"You look thoughtful."
Emma Frost sat down beside her oldest student and followed his line of sight through the distorted glass and onto the busy street beyond.� The black leather-clad youth, more than a little unsettled by her close proximity, shuffled further down the knife-slashed seat.
<It's never the same, is it?>� A wistful, almost nostalgic look flashed through his deep eyes.� <I used to come 'ere a lot when I was ... y'know, normal.� Harry the Bastard used to run the place back then - guaranteed bar room brawl every Friday and Saturday night.� And you see that Sushi bar over there?� Used to be the cheapest curry house in Camden.� And that flashy shoe shop?� Mr Ramadas' newsagency, open six 'til ten 365 days a year.� Good times, good people.� But now ... ?� I dunno.� You move on and everything carries on without you - evolves into something that's no longer a part of you.� Doesn't seem right.>
If she'd thought a trip home might have cheered Jonothon Starsmore up, she was grimly mistaken.� Watching what was left of his face disappear behind a self-inflicted black cloud, Emma carefully slid off the bench seat and crossed over to Angelo, ranting and raving at the cigarette machine in the corner of the pub.
"I think Jono's in need of a friend,"� she confided quietly.
A cardiac-arrest grey palm slapped against the fake oak veneer.� "I'm on the case as soon as this friggin' piece o' limey crap decides to give me the wares!"
Smiling, she drifted back over to her gin and tonic and settled herself on the stool.� A quick glance around to see what her charges were up to:� Paige and Jubilee were chatting up some poor, unsuspecting Australian back-packers whilst Monet played the role of aloof ice maiden, her perfect nose turned up into the air (although Emma couldn't help but observe how the Algerian girl kept� surreptitiously glancing at the blond surfer-type's well-toned biceps).� Sean and Everett were playing a game of pool in the other section of the bar and Angelo ... ?� Ah, he'd retrieved his cigarettes and was going over to Jonothon.� If anyone could talk some sense into the brooding young man, it'd be Espinosa.
"Hola, amigo!� You gonna cheer up enough to show me these fetish shops you keep tellin' me about, or what?"
<Heh.� If they're still there.� Nothing else is.>� Jonothon fixed his friend with his most depressive of stares.� <I don't know this city anymore.� People, places - all gone.� All gone.� There's nothin' 'ere for me, mate.>
"Familia?"
<'ow didcha feel back in L.A., Ange?� When your mother disowned you and your girl tried to kill you?� Did it feel like home, then?� Like you 'ad something to come back to?>
Angelo drew in a mouthful of smoke, regretting his decision to act as counsellor.� There were times when the man was beyond even the most compassionate of help.� He gazed idly around the empty pub in search of an excuse to get up and leave, finally settling on the swing door as it was flung wide open.
The sudden stench of gasoline-soaked, sweaty London punched a path through the comparitively fragrant pub atmosphere.� Jono shuddered, an insipid sensation of deja vu playing a cacophonic tune on his nerves.� Frowning eyes wandered over to the figure striding purposefully through the door towards the bar.
"Madre de Dios!"� Angelo was muttering as he clocked the intimidating newcomer.� "Is there anyone in this city that looks vaguely human?"
Jono didn't answer - was too absorbed in studying the stranger's features to even hear his friend.� And the more he digested, the more intense the feeling of recognition became.� Six foot one of black leather and bad attitude;� almost like looking in the mirror until he reached the man's face.� The newcomer wasn't conventionally handsome (as Starsmore had once been) but was more sort of hypnotically good-looking, his pale, dour physiognomy flickering with the hint of danger so many women found irresistable.
Glacial blue eyes swivelled around to intercept Jono's less-than friendly stare.� Angelo observed the stranger move over towards their table and aimed a sharp jab at his friend's arm.
"What is it with you, man?� Play 'Freak out the Psycho' when I'm not hanging with you, yeah?� 'Cos gettin' my butt kicked wasn't on my list of 'Things to do in London'..."
Starsmore shot his companion a fierce look.� <I can fight my own battles, Skin, so sod off if yer ain't gonna be constructive.>
Across the bar, Emma caught a glimpse of what was transpiring and hastily rushed over to intervene.� The stranger had swaggered over to the table and was leaning provocatively close to Starsmore's face.
"You.� You're Jonothon Starsmore, aren't you?"
Emma rested her hand on the big man's shoulder.� "Listen, we don't want any trouble, okay?"
<Leave it, Frost.>� Jono rose to his feet and tried to make himself look bigger.� <Are you largin' it up on me, mate?>
"Please, Jonothon ... !"
"Are you Jonothon Starsmore?� Simple question, pal.� Simple answer."
<What if I am?� Who wants to know?>
The stranger's features collapsed into an uneasy grin.� Before Jono could react, the man had fixed him in a crushing but warm embrace.� Both Emma and Angelo were too taken aback to do anything but think� 'that was unexpected' and wait for the drama to unfold.
"Don't say you haven't felt it?"� the stranger gushed, prising himself apart from the shell-shocked youth.� "Jonothon - my name's Cal ... Callum Irving."� A pause, lit up by a toothy smile that sat awkwardly on those thin, pierced lips.� "Your brother."