As
she arrived in Downtown her memory flooded back. The Scanners’ center, The
Howard J. Memorial Center, looked a bit like a gravestone on the east and west
sides; she found it quickly. She saw Frank’s car parked across the street from
it. Bren slowed down as she passed it and looked in through the window to see
the driver’s side seat was empty. So he’d gotten out and was going to make the
journey on foot like some kind of guy who wanted to be easier to catch up with.
Then again, the paths one could take on foot
arguably made for a faster journey between the four centers than in a car.
Alleyways and places provided routes that cars couldn’t take.
Bren parked a few blocks down, and walked
back to the Memorial Center. She knocked on the front doors, hoping to hear
someone, but no one answered. She knocked again, this time with her gauntleted
fist but still heard nothing. As she turned, the doors opened behind her.
“Brenda,” the voice called, just
above a whisper. A voice that seemed weak, frail, like an elderly man lying in
bed, moments before death. Or at least some asshole trying to sound like that.
Bren turned. It was Seymour, wearing
a black robe. His bald head shone in the light of the streetlamps, “Hey, you
see a guy come through here? Big guy, wearing a winter jacket, bleach-white
hair… he’d have been driving that car over there.” She pointed at Frank’s.
“Yes,” Seymour said. He smiled, “He
is currently walking in the direction of the Strifepalm center. Do you know
him?”
“Kind of,” Bren said, “Is there any
chance you could keep an eye out for him? Tell your sentries to steer him away?
He’s going to try to do a centers circuit tonight.”
“Some kind of strange fools you
associate yourself with, Brenda,” Seymour said, “I will call off the teams I
have placed on him. I will tell them that he is just a boy, not to be worried
about.”
“Thank you,” Bren said, “Can’t you
offer him any protection from the others?”
“The others will do what they will
do. Maybe they will know what he is doing and leave him alone. But, Brenda,” he
said, inclining his head, “you know that it is not our place to decide who
lives and dies.”
“Ok, thanks,” Bren said. It was
thanks for calling off his guys, not really thanks for anything else. Bren
hated dealing with Seymour, but technically, Bren was aware that he was kin of
a sort, given her family history.
“It will not be a problem,” Seymour
said, “Perhaps one of these days you will attend a service? You know that, with
your history and patron hero, you are welcome to join us at any time.”
“Maybe someday I will,” Bren said,
not at all trying to even sound honest, “Maybe I’ll stop by sometime, grab a
few pamphlets.”
“Thank you, Brenda,” Seymour said.
He took a step back and began to close the doors, “Until such a day, I bid you
farewell.”
Bren turned before he’d finished
closing the doors. She hoped it would ruin whatever dramatic effect he had been
going for.
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