Oriphiel

I'm back again, and it's time for DISCOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

Chapter Eleven



Cleo and John walked through the street in a nonchalant fashion, although they were still ready for any trouble they might run into. After all, some of those boys back in the metro train might have used a pay phone to call ahead and issue a warning to the rest of the pack. So far, however, they seemed to be in the clear, as the few Blue Shirts that were awake and about at such an early hour seemed to ignore them without so much as a second glance. Both Cleo and John had been nursing their wounds since the previous battle, and eventually they decided to visit one of the seedy clinics half-hidden throughout the city. Such places weren't entirely uncommon in areas with heavy gang activity; where a profit stands to be made, businesses will inevitably spring up, and the people of this city had need of a place that would patch them up without asking questions, for a fee of course (and much lighter than the debts that a person might incur at a legitimate hospital). To find shelter in this unfamiliar part of town, they asked directions of a homeless woman reclining comfortably on a couch that had been set out on the sidewalk, and a few dollars later they were heading in the right direction.

John and Cleo walked cautiously past a Blue Shirt as they scanned the streets. At the entrance of a nearby alleyway, a "+" had been written on the brick wall in red chalk. "There," said Cleo, as she nodded towards it. "Yeah," answered John, tightly grasping the cut across his arm as the two of them entered the alley. Cleo stretched out an arm as she walked onward, running her fingers across the bricks of the wall beside her; they were shiny and smooth, still wet from last night's rain and the few drops that were continuing to fall. "Think it'll keep on?" asked John, looking up at the sky. Cleo shot him a glance over her shoulder and shrugged, saying "I don't know. Hold on, let me check my pocket shaman." John looked at her with an incredulous expression, and she rolled her eyes and continued "Nobody gets my humor..." Before long, they had reached a cramped stairwell that seemed to tunnel into the side of the alley, leading to a small green door at the bottom. Across the door were two signs; the first was a faded antique that said "Tender Love and Care", and the sign beneath it had "No Trades. $ or Fuck Off" scrawled bluntly across it. Cleo smiled widely as she looked at the green door and briefly played with the antique sign, saying "I love it! The little mom-ish antique, the paint job, the tiny knob, the warning sign that looks like a three year old wrote it with a crayon... it's a-door-able." She looked at John as her smile became a smirk, asking "Get it?" John rolled his eyes, and he leaned past her and turned the doorknob as the door slowly opened with a creak.

The two of them found themselves in what was essentially a basement. Underneath the dim glow of a few lightbulbs hanging off of the ceiling from simple wires, a small group of people were going about their business. A few were rummaging through various bags and boxes, while others tended to a wounded man that lay unconscious on a cot. A man sitting on a crate and smoking a cigarette looked up at John and Cleo from the magazine he was reading. He set it down, nodding his head towards them in acknowledgement as he asked "You lot need some work done on you?" Before they could give anything other than a brief answer, the man had hopped off of the crate and started looking them over. He quickly grabbed John by the shoulder and led him and Cleo towards a few empty cots, taking a long drag from his cigarette before throwing it to the ground and extinguishing it with his foot. "It's just a few scratches," said John as he was basically forced unto a cot. "Speak for yourself," said Cleo as she rubbed her ribs. She untucked her shirt and slowly lifted up the bottom, revealing an abstract painting of reds, yellows and purples across her lower torso. "Fuck," she said through a nervous laugh, "didn't expect it to look like that. In the movies, people get beat to hell and back, and yet they always seem to walk away with just a few little nicks here and there." The man set down John's wounded arm and examined Cleo's ribs, eventually saying "It looks much worse than it actually is. Your ribs don't seem to be broken, which is very good; shards of bone are nasty little fuckers, tearing up organs and such. When did this happen?" "Well, we've been walking around for awhile... I think the fight happened maybe twenty minutes ago?" answered Cleo. The man responded "Then your stomach probably isn't punctured, else you'd be either dead or screaming. There's definitely internal bleeding, though, that's for damn sure." He stopped and ran a hand through his hair, saying "Yeah, I can deal with most of this. Easy. $50. You got it?" John and Cleo nodded, and they both went through their pockets until they had collectively amassed the amount.

As he grabbed a few supplies and started to clean and stitch up their cuts, starting with the wound on John's arm, he began to sing a few folk tunes in a low and quiet voice, almost as if he was simply humming. In a short amount of time, he had patched them both up. "Is there anything I can do about this right now?" asked Cleo, with a hand on her ribs. The man glanced at her as he clipped the last piece of suture, and shook his head and shrugged, saying "Not really. Get thee to a hospital." John raised an eyebrow at the man's choice of using the word "thee", but he figured that he was probably quoting something. When the man had finished his work, without so much as saying another word he left the two of them and sat back on the crate, lifting up his magazine after lighting another cigarette. John and Cleo stood up and collected themselves, before leaving the dank clinic. Outside, the sun had climbed a bit further into the sky, flooding the city with even more light as it continued to rise. The two of them continued on their mission, making their way towards the Blue Shirts' headquarters. As they drew closer, John stuck to the shadows and scanned the surrounding area, eventually deciding to spy on the hideout from a nearby abandoned building. As he peered at the hideout through a foggy window, Cleo rocked on her heels and asked "Well, we're here. So... what's the plan, again? Just walk right in and get the shit kicked out of us? Or maybe we could keep gawking at them from the shadows like a bunch of fucking peeping toms until they start conveniently shouting out all of the details of their evil plans for us to hear?"

"I know," said John, sighing, "we're probably wasting our time. But I wanted to get a look at things, you know, maybe find a way in. If you don't look, you never find out." "Well, we could steal some disguises, right? Beat up some Blue Shirts and take their, well, blue shirts," asked Cleo. John shook his head, saying "I don't think so. That kind of shit only works in the movies. They'd have to be pretty stupid to fall for it." Cleo tilted her head and bit her lip, replying "Yeah, maybe. But I think you're greatly underestimating how stupid real people can be. You know, I used to sneak into places all the time, kinda a hobby of mine. And I found that if you just act like you belong, and look like you belong, then pretty much nobody will question you." John rolled his eyes and laughed briefly, saying "You know what? You've convinced me. I mean, it's probably our only option at this point anyway. But I should probably mention that the Blue Shirts know me. After you kick the shit out of people enough times, they tend to remember your face. And I wasn't exactly a background figure in last night's battle. They'd remember me." Cleo put a hand to her chin and thought for a moment, before shooting John a sly smile. "The Blue Shirts have female members, right?" she asked. John nodded, and replied "Yeah, a few. Why?" "Well, they'd definitely remember a Red Sleeve like you, but they probably wouldn't recognize me. I could do some skulking around, no problem." John shook his head, replying "No way. If that guy on the metro managed to remember you from last night's battle, then chances are that someone else will." "Oh, come on," replied Cleo, smiling, "that was just one guy, and the only reason that he remembered me was 'cause I messed up his face. Other than that, I really didn't get involved with the fight beyond a few punches and kicks here and there, so I doubt that in all of the chaos anyone other than him would remember my face." John thought about it, shaking his head slightly as he looked down and exhaled. "Face it; i'm the only shot you've got of finding out whatever it is that you're trying to learn from spying on the Blue Shirts," continued Cleo. Though her voice was confident, her eyes were narrowed slightly as if she was tired or in pain, and she was rubbing her ribs with one of her hands. John looked up at her, noticing her discomfort, and asked "You sure you're up for it?" "Yeah," said Cleo, lowering her hand from her ribs, "definitely. Like the doc said, it's not so bad. I'll take care of it later."

A few minutes later, the plan was being carried out with masterful skill. Wearing the clothes of an unlucky Blue Shirt who happened to be taking a leak in the alley beside the abandoned building (who was, after being knocked out, locked in one of the abandoned building's rooms), Cleo walked into the hideout with an air of confidence. Just as she had thought, almost nobody gave her any trouble at all, save for a sentry near the front door. "Who the fuck are you?" he asked, putting his hands on his belt as he scanned her up and down. "Cleo," she responded. The man shook his head, and replied "I didn't ask for your name. I asked who the fuck you were. Let me guess... a new blood, right? Some asshole's little sister, looking to prove herself?" Cleo narrowed her eyes. "It's none of your fucking business, but yeah, I guess I am. My brother's John," she said, figuring that one of the Blue Shirts had to have that name, since it's pretty popular in this story (two people have that name so far, and counting). The sentry laughed, saying "First of all, it is my business. Everyone and everything that comes through that door is my business. And secondly... John (make that three)? Really? That fucker can't even lift a match without breaking a sweat; I can't even imagine how pathetic his sister must be." Cleo sensed that a display of strength was called for, and so she punched the sentry in his nose, sending him to the floor. "Don't ever talk about my brother like that. And, more importantly, don't ever talk about me like that. You hear?" The sentry quickly got back to his feet and rubbed his nose, saying "Damn, girl! You're lucky i'm a gentleman, otherwise I'd make you pay for that cheap-shit sucker punch. Anyway, you're a hell of a lot stronger than your brother, that's for damn sure. You keep on laying people flat, and filling out that blue shirt as well as you do, and I'll be glad to see you stick around for awhile." Cleo stuck to her rough persona and ignored him, brushing her way past a few Blue Shirts as she ventured further into the hideout.