image [https://yt3.ggpht.com/bjhuQ2v4oDiRAXiVqKkgg2iTZpFHyylhlhFYFjLudm3jsHu1vwAx_F2t_ajC8CYx-lcekAAnwQdk4g=s640-c-fcrop64=1,00000000ffffffff-nd-v1]
Valerie Meadows
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Valerie was many things. When she was a child, she acquired a laundry list of nicknames before she was 12 years old. Her father, Carl Meadows, nicknamed her Toppy. It was a badge of honor, a symbol of their shared laughter over Saturday morning cartoons and cereal. Carl Meadows had always had a knack for making even a nickname feel like a secret handshake between conspirators.
As Valerie shifted in her seat, the creak of worn leather brought forth the memory of her mother, Cheryl's, knowing look whenever she'd snoop around the cookie jar or ask one too many questions about adult conversations. "Nosy", she would chide, but there was a glint of pride behind the admonishment; her daughter was curious, unafraid to delve deeper.
Growing up, that list of names trailed behind her like a shadow getting longer and less flattering with each stage of her life. Each epithet captured a facet of her, a story, a moment in time when her character revealed itself—stubborn, relentless, inquisitive.
As she grew up in the list got longer and less flattering, she could admit that some of them weren't entirely unfair.
The nicknames were not just words; they were markers of her path from a precocious child to the tenacious woman she now saw in the windshield glass. She was stubborn as an ox, didn't know when to quit, and was principled enough to give up the easy Mobiums in order to focus on the harder hitting stories.
She drummed her fingers on the steering wheel. Her mind wandered back to that pivotal moment, one that had tested the very principles that defined her. It was late at in the morning, the kind of hour where decisions loomed larger than life, and the promise of security whispered seductively in the in the smiles of those in charge. SSN had laid out a contract before her, papers crisp and heavy with the scent of ink and opportunity. The numbers on those pages had danced before her eyes, figures so substantial they could have erased any worry about bills for the rest of her days.
She could still feel the weight of the pen in her hand, poised just above the line where her signature would seal the deal. How flattering the editors were about her articles. How it would have been so easy to let the pen fall, to let the ink flow and anchor her to a future of comfort and complacency.
But even as the whispers of temptation curled around her resolve, even then, fresh out of college and landing the kind of interview her fellow grads would've killed for, Valerie knew what signing that contract would mean: exchanging her voice for a gilded cage, trading the pursuit of truth for the ease of scripted narratives. She had always chased the stories that mattered, the ones that thrived in the shadows, begging to be dragged into the light. To give up on that—for any price—was a betrayal to herself and her father's lessons, she couldn't stomach.
The memory of walking away from that offer stiffened Valerie's spine now, as she sat shivering in the unheated car. A lesser version of herself might have caved, but she was made of sterner stuff. The cold was a reminder of the choices she'd made, a testament to her commitment to the stories that needed telling, no matter the cost. She wasn't in this for the mobiums; she never had been.
The antique sports car, a relic passed down from her mother, hummed softly beneath her—a comforting, familiar vibration that did little to dispel the chill. The fan wheezed, its monotonous drone a constant companion as it fought valiantly against the fog that threatened to cloak the windows and windshield.
Her fingers ceased their rhythmic drumming on the steering wheel, coming to rest instead on the frigid leather. If she had given in, agreed to their terms, perhaps she'd be wrapped in luxury now, ensconced in the heated seat of a model far flashier than the one she currently called her own. Maybe even becoming the second Siren of Station Square...
She snorted. "Stay sharp, Meadows," she murmured to herself, her voice firm.
Yeah, she was many things but stupid and greedy wasn't one of them. Valerie knew that tonight, nosy or not, she would need every ounce of that nerve.
SSN had been too good to be true and now as she sat in her sports car, puffing into her cupped hands to warm them up in the parking lot of the FS4 club, she mentally reviewed her preparations.
The feline woman had written a physical letter to the Times, specifically addressed to Sketch explaining where she would be tonight. She also left a similar note on her laptop and an email as insurance. She took photos of the business card and photocopies of it were in the envelope.
Every part of her hated every second of preparations, her inner sanity screaming at her that if she felt she needed to do all that then maybe this wasn't worth it. She checked her watch and then glanced out the window, FS4 signage above the double doors gleaming bright and neon green through the light drizzle. The muffled thump of bass from whatever hard music was playing in there.
If it hadn't been for the message, she had tucked in her blazer pocket and its method of delivery, the place wouldn't have seemed so foreboding.
Outside the double doors, men and women, Mobians of all kinds were lined up along the sidewalk where the crowd rope posts separated them from the street. With outfits ranging from the stylish to the provocative, she wouldn't have given this place a second look otherwise. FS4 could have been any of the dozens of overhyped, overcharging clubs sprinkled through Station Square, even more so with the sheer amount of stupid people willing to stand in the cold and rain for a chance to get in.
The vibrant hues of their garments seemed almost defiant against the dreary backdrop of rain-soaked streets. Some shivered in thinly veiled dresses, while others stood stoically, their outfits more suited to the chill.
She certainly wasn't fitting in, that was for sure. She hadn't done more than dress in her usual outfit of a sunhat, white jacket, and blouse, with low heeled shoes. The added coat was just for the rain.
She glanced at her watch. 5:30 on the nose. 'I can still back out.'
Everything about this was shady and given Sketch's warning she wouldn't put it past certain people to...
She shook her head. Her paranoia was getting to her, and she couldn't let herself be rattled.
The Federation might be corrupt but government had a tendency to be very stupid and blunt with its methods. If they wanted her dead, they wouldn't have bothered with the song and dance. Not to mention, she doubted that without some serious cage rattling, no one was going to pay her much mind anyway.
Knock-knock.
The sudden sound shattered the fragile peace she had constructed around herself. Valerie's heart leapt into her throat as she jerked upright, her instincts snapping her ears back and making her fur rise.
"Augh!" She yowled, nearly flopping over the entire center console and ended up slamming her tailbone off the emergency brake of her car.
"Get a grip," she muttered under her breath, rubbing at the sore spot with a frown creasing her brow.
She looked up into the bemused face of a purple weasel, his hand hovering mid-air over her driver side window clearly poised to knock again.
Still reeling from the sudden jolt, she felt her cheeks flush with embarrassment. With tense muscles, she delicately pushed the button to lower the car window, the whir of the electric mechanism seeming to echo loudly in the usually quiet interior. She only opened it a crack, enough to communicate but not enough to invite any further invasions of her personal space. "Can I help you?"
The weasel's gesture was one of politeness, a tilt of the brown cowboy hat that seemed incongruous with the roughness of his trench coat. Valerie noted the deliberate slowness of the motion, as if he were granting her time to take in every detail: the frayed edges of his garment, the way his narrowed eyes remained fixed on her, unblinking and calculating. "You Valerie?"
A nod came instinctively, her muscles contracting before her mind had run through the usual checks. She berated herself silently—question first, react later was the mantra she lived by in her line of work. But caught off-guard, Valerie's stress betrayed her, sending her caution skittering to some distant corner of her thoughts.
In the silence that followed, she could feel the weight of his scrutiny, as if he were peeling back layers with those piercing blue eyes, looking for something beneath the surface. Valerie held his gaze, her own green eyes steady, projecting the confidence of a seasoned journalist despite the unease that coiled in her stomach.
Finally, the man bobbed his head, as if confirming to himself he thought as much, an exclamation point to his curt question. He gestured toward the club with a practiced ease that spoke of many such exchanges, carried out in the shadow of the pulsing neon sign. "You're almost late. Boss don't like his time wasted."
Valerie's heart thudded against her ribs, a drumbeat echoing the seriousness of his tone. There was no mistaking the implication: punctuality was not a courtesy here but a commandment etched into the very stone of FS4's foundation. Her fingers tightened involuntarily around the strap of her bag as she processed the unspoken threat lurking beneath his words.
As if on cue, doubt crept into her mind like fog over a harbor, obscuring the path she had so carefully planned. She was still in the driver seat, the engine was still idling, and she knew how to handle the manual transmission like a master. The steering would leap at the flick of her wrist, the push of her foot against the clutch. She could drop it into gear and be off and out the parking lot before he could do anything.
If he tried anything.
She doubted he would try to attack her or drag her out of the car in front of all these witnesses. She glanced at the sidewalk, noting the reflections of faces in the queue outside FS4. Curiosity mingled with impatience on their features, but none seemed to pay her any particular mind. They were absorbed in their own anticipation of the night ahead.
'But if you step out of the car...' The thought hung in the cold air, an invisible specter whispering caution.
She exhaled slowly, letting the breath out like steam from a pressure valve and turned off the engine, pocketing her car keys. "Stay sharp," she whispered, the mantra steadying her resolve as she pocketed the card and gathered her tools—a recorder, a notebook, and every last bit of her nerve and stepped out, the weasel offering a hand to help.
She didn't take it. She wasn't sure she wouldn't scratch him with her nerves wound this tight. Plus, with his silhouette was outlined by the neon lights that seeped from the club's entrance, painting him in hues of green and blue as she stepped out. He was much taller than her, or perhaps it was the hat. Maybe both.
His lips curved into a half-smile, an amusement playing in his eyes, as he shrugged off the slight. He stood back and gestured grandly at the entrance of the club.
"Welcome to FS4," his voice held a trace of irony as Valerie began her walk towards the club. He fell into step beside her, hands buried deep in his trench coat pockets and his cowboy hat tilted to hide most of his face from any prying eyes.
As she followed his lead, the one's standing in line went from looking miserable to furious as the massive gorilla bouncer wearing a combat helmet of all things, let them through without a word.
Inside, the club was an entirely different world. Music rose to pound her eardrums. Neon lights overhead chased away the outside gloom, replaced by the pulsating energy that spilled from the speakers, clashing with the indistinct chatter of Mobians. As they moved through the crowd, Valerie watched as bartenders juggled bottles and patrons danced without a care. The scent of alcohol and cologne filled her nose while she hugged her coat tight to ward off the residual chill from outside. They walked past the bar lined with bottles, some of which she didn't recognize and would probably never be able to afford and around the stage where a DJ was expertly spinning vinyls, his digits moving with a practiced grace that was near hypnotic to watch.
The weasel led her past booths and tables to another set of double doors. The dense club gave way to a dimly lit corridor, thinning out the throng till there was only the weasel and her. Valerie was so caught up in the thumping bass and flashing lights she jumped slightly when, as they got deeper through the back hallway and the volume lowered as the doors swung shut, the weasel began to speak.
"When you meet the boss, it'll do you good to be respectful." He said, an odd drawling timber to his voice she hadn't noticed before. If that didn't light up so many red alerts in her head, then what he said next tightened her spine like a spring. "Speak only when spoken to. Answer his questions and you'll be well paid for your time." He finished as they approached a final set of double doors.
These were guarded by two formidable looking bouncers who wore matching combat helmets to their colleague checking IDs outside. One was a Lynx with impressive sideburns wearing what looked like a light blue uniform on the left. To the right was a hawk with deep sky blue feathers, a headband peeking out from beneath the lip of the helmet.
Both gave Valerie and her escort the barest glance before turning their attention back on the hall with the air of professionals. Not even the guards of the Department of Records had been so stiff.
Her mind turned back to what she just and told. Since when did this become about payment? She wanted to ask but before she could they guards exchanged a glance and then open the door for them and her question was choked and a gasp of shock.
If a modern-day club was just behind her, then this room was the antiquated office of some grand scholar.
Large floor-to-ceiling shelves filled with books, trinkets, items in glass display cases, and all matter of things she could and couldn't identify lined the walls.
Even as she stepped in, the cat felt the money oozing off everything, either from its age or from the sheer craftsmanship that was obvious to someone who didn't know a thing about what went into the creation of everything in the room.
The door shut and it cut off what little tap of techno bass was left, leaving them in total silence.
The weasel gestured for her to sit, indicating one of the pair of plush red leather chairs seated before a massive desk.
Stunned, she numbly sat down her eyes drawn to the vintage alcohol collection displayed in the glass cabinets behind the desk. She glanced over the labels, at least the legible ones.
Valerie knew that if she couldn't afford the bottles on the upper shelf at the bar outside then she certainly would never get a whiff these ones. 'At least I recognized those brands,' she observed. ' A good chunk of these are faded from age.'
"Wait here," the weasel said before disappearing through another door at the end of the room.
Valerie moved to one of the couches, setting her bag beside her. She opened her bag just enough to locate the recorder, activate it without taking it out, and zipped it back up not a second too soon.
She felt the approaching steps before she heard them, a distinct rhythmic impact thumping through the carpet and up her heels. One after another, they thudded against the lush carpet, growing closer, until finally the door swung open revealing a huge shadow loomed in the doorway from where the weasel had disappeared. The weasel was in the lead, acting as bodyguard to someone Valerie felt didn’t need any protection, much less from her.
He stepped aside taking a position next to the door and the one who invited her stepped into the room, his mammoth bulk filling the room as he made smooth easy strides to his desk. She thought mammoth because he literally was one. A pair of massive curving tusks protruded from his lower lip, curving upwards to frame a face that was a testament to the passage of time. The air of dignified age flew in the face of the suit that must have been tailored for him, painted in cream white, which accentuated the blue cuffs of his dress shirt and many gold rings around his fingers.
His eyes examined her beneath a bushy brow, appearing even smaller when he squinted at her through a cloud of smoke from an ivory pipe held by his trunk. The tap of his gold headed cane was solid against the carpet as he lumbered past his desk and over to a genuine crystal decanter and popped the plug.
Without a word, he poured a generous measure of the amber brown liquid into two glasses and passed one over to her.
Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.
A tumbler that fit into her palm very comfortably was easily pinched between his thumb and forefinger like a shot glass.
She took it numbly, still struggling to get a read on the mammoth as he sat down, weight settling into the chair behind his desk.
"Fang, Nack, your dismissed."
Valerie was thankful she had tried to take a sip because she certainly would've choked on it with how quickly her throat seem to tighten at the names.
Surely, she heard wrong, right? Her ears twitched as she slowly processed the mammoth so casually dropping the names of two infamous assassins right in front of her like it was the weather.
She looked over to the door and at first she thought the adrenaline running through her veins is making her see double.
A few blinks later didn't clear away what she saw. The weasel who led her inside, stood at the side door next to another who looked exactly the same.
They were dressed in the same overcoat, cowboy hat, even there for was the same shade of purple even the fur was the same shade of purple.
She realized one of them had to have been behind the mammoth and she just hadn't been able to see him.
'Twin assassins,' she thought as her stomach clenched. 'Oh, you're up to your ears in it now, Val.'
She didn't know if it was Fang or Nack who showed her in but one of them must have found her reaction amusing. He winked at her, following his brother out.
"Miss Meadows," the mammoth began. He took the pipe in his trunk and tapped out the ashes into an ashtray. "Please do forgive the clandestine nature of my contacting you. I find it crucial, in my line of work, to maintain a certain level of secrecy."
Valerie found her tongue was as dry as parchment. "And what... what line of work is that?" she asked, struggling to keep her voice steady. “Mister…?”
“Mogul, Ixis Mogul.” The mammoth behind the desk chuckled, a deep and grumbling sound that echoed through the room. "One might say I'm an... investor of sorts," he replied cryptically, his small eyes gleaming in the soft light filtering through the old glass liquor cabinet behind him.
He reached out a massive hand, picking up an antique-looking paperweight from amongst the clutter on his desk and turning it over in his fingers. "I have a keen interest in unique talents and rarities," he continued, his voice mellow against the backdrop of silence. "People who possess exceptional abilities or artifacts that are out of the ordinary draw my attention."
“And I’ve drawn your attention how exactly?”
"Oh, I think you are well aware," he replied after a moment's pause. A slid some papers over to himself and stretched his trunk out and plucked a pen to write with.
"I’m familiar with several of your articles and exposés. The world of investigative journalism isn't an easy one to conquer. Your knack for uncovering the truth, no matter how well hidden it might be... It's impressive.”
The mammoth's words filled her with unease. She felt alarm bells ringing in the back of her mind but forced herself to hold it together. “And a mobster wants me here…for what?”
The mammoth raised an eyebrow. “Whatever makes you think I’m anything but an honest businessman?”
‘How about the fact you’re not denying it?’ Valerie thought.
Instead, she gestured to the room with one hand and then to the door Nack and Fang left through with the other. “The guards, the wealth, the fact you’ve got a pair of assassins working for you?”
"Mere precautions in my line of work and also a few unique talents I've invested in" His voice was measured, calm, betraying no hint of irritation with her insinuations. The mammoth chuckled again, maybe not impressed but certainly amused. “Miss Meadows, I am in a business that involves risk. Certain... precautions must be taken. Those two gentlemen are mere associates. And as for all this..." He glanced around at the opulent room. "It's simply a product of good investments. And even more lucrative connections," there was a glint in his eyes as he went on, "That’s what I want to hire you for.”
“And if I choose not to believe you?” she challenged, her gaze steady despite the mounting tension within her.
“Then that would be your prerogative,” the mammoth responded simply, placing his pen down and reclining into his chair. He regarded her with an intensity that sent a shiver down her spine. His gaze was unnerving, all-knowing and calculated like a seasoned chess player contemplating his next move.
"However," he continued, breaking the silence, "your belief is hardly of consequence to me."
His words hung heavy in the room and Valerie could almost feel the weight of them in her chest. This mammoth Mogul was not a man who needed to justify himself.
Valerie's mind was spinning. What could a mob boss want with a journalist? She was no hitman or enforcer.
"Before your imagination begins leaping along the Elyisum fields, allow me to clarify," the mammoth continued, noticing her apprehension. "I have no intention of bringing you into my work.” He opened a drawer and pulled out a thick file. The G.U.N seal on the tan folder making it clear what it was. Mogul swirled the amber liquid in his glass before taking a sip and setting it down. His gaze never left her as he opened the file and began to skim through it. "From my understanding, your investigations often run into obstructions from certain...powers that be."
“I need you to just continue what you are doing. Without the roadblocks you’ve been dealing with.”
"Roadblocks?" Valerie's voice rose slightly as her brows furrowed. The term was looser than she would have liked, and yet her attempt at trying to play dumb felt all the stupider since she knew this man had been having her watched for who knew how long. Somehow the fact he knew about Sketch having pressured her to give up the story wasn’t shocking. "What...roadblocks?"
Ixis Mogul chuckled, his trunk lightly caressing the outline of the G.U.N folder before sliding it across the table towards her. "Oh, you know..." He made a vague gesture with one of his rings-adorned hand, "The limitations that keep you from digging deeper into your investigations. The strings that are bound around your hands by your superiors. The doors that are often slammed shut in your face when you're on the verge of uncovering something immense."
"I...I..." She was at a loss for words, reeling from his blunt honesty about the reality of her work she always tried to ignore in order to stay sane.
"Yes, Miss Meadows," he chimed in, almost reading her thoughts. "I am offering you the story which will make your career. For a price.”
"And what would that price be, exactly?" she found her voice again, hating how it wavered slightly. She didn't dare touch the file in front of her, even as her curiosity screamed for her to open it and see what secrets it held.
"One year of your time," Mogul answered simply. “I can put you on the path of the one man who can tell you everything about what happened on that island. You just need to stay by his side for a year. I’m prepared to offer 5,000 per week with a payout to match it at the end of your term. All I ask for is monthly reports on his status and whatever you can find. You may publish whatever findings you get.”
Valerie was silent for a long moment, the offer sinking in. Mogul watched her with an impassive expression, swirling his tusk around the rim of his glass. The money was tempting; although she had never been in journalism for the wealth, she couldn’t deny that this amount could change her life. But it was the prospect of uncovering the truth about what happened on that island that truly appealed.
“And who is this man?” She finally asked, trying to keep her voice steady.
Mogul smiled, a chilling yet oddly charming smile. “Jamison Broadway. The Bulwark.”
She took a deep breath, closing her eyes and centering herself on the facts. The deal was most likely too good to be true, but even if it wasn’t, she would still be working indirectly for a man she couldn’t, wouldn’t, trust. But try as she might, the cat couldn’t see what the point of him lying about this would be. This whole song and dance, if it were a trap, was just too elaborate.
“So you just want me to spy on him for a year?” she asked, carefully choosing her words.
“Call it what you want," Mogul replied, shrugging his massive shoulders. "I call it...an extended investigation.”
Valerie looked at Mogul through narrowed eyes. “If I agree to this...extended investigation, can I have your word that you won't interfere with my work? No edits, no restrictions?" Valerie felt suspicion curling in her gut. Her intuition told her something was not right.
"I believe honesty will do here." The mobster said as if his decision needed pronouncement to the room. He leaned forward and folded his hands together, the large rings on his fingers clicking against one another.
"I'm a criminal as you know, Madam Meadows. I do not care for what happens in this country even though I live in it, profit off of it. Some might even say I leach off of it. I am also far too old to be swept up in the nationalistic patriotism of the United Federation. That is to say, so long as egg man does not interrupt my business, I do not care who is in charge.
"However..." He faded, using his trunk to reach into a desk drawer to pull out a bottle of brandy. He poured himself a measure, his attention never wavering from Valerie, a quite unnerving display of focus. " I do find myself in the business of keeping abreast of major events that go on in this country. Tupelo Island is one of them. The small bits of information I've been able to glean paint a very ugly picture. Worse, the good Mr. Broadway has found himself in a position of my interest. And before you ask, this is not about him owing me some debt or anything of the like. If anything, I find myself wishing to aid him."
He took a slow sip of his drink, closing his eyes and breathing deep as he enjoyed the taste. "That being said, he is a very hateful man. One might call him a pressure cooker on the verge of exploding. He does not know that yet. A Mobian who as gone through what he has would be unable to separate the true problem is something unusual from a form of posttraumatic stress response."
"If he is so dangerous, why send me? Surely you have people who could do this job for you."
"Simple. Good help is hard to find nowadays, and I would not want the weld of first impressions to be poisoned by misunderstanding. Thus, we catch two butterflies in one swing." He pointed a finger at her. "You get your interview, "he pointed at himself. "I get my foot in the door with Mr. Broadway. Do we have a deal?"
"Two butterflies in one swing..." Valerie murmured, her fingers circling the edge of the thick file before her. She looked up at Ixis Mogul, her expression unreadable. A multitude of emotions were swirling inside her; confusion, intrigue, fear, and a hint of anticipation. She studied his face for a few seconds more, trying to decipher any ulterior motives behind his words.
That’s when she realized that was exactly what he wanted - for her to keep guessing his intentions, to keep her on her toes. But she also had a choice - to step into the unknown and expose the truth or to remain where she was, in the mundanity of her work, unable to make a difference.
“I’m not looking for anything specific,” he answered in a nonchalant manner, leaning back further into his plush chair. “Simply keep your eyes open and your mind receptive. You’ll find that Mr. Broadway is a man who possesses an abundance of hidden truths."
"No," she said finally. "We don’t have a deal."
The room was silent save for the quiet tinkling of Mogul’s glass as he swirled his drink around. He regarded her with surprise, but there was a glimmer of respect in his eyes.
"I see," he said after a beat, leaning back in his chair and resting his glass on his stomach. "Don’t think of it as a rejection, Miss Meadows. More like...a negotiation."
He picked up the file he'd previously pushed towards her and held it out again. "Take it," he urged, "Think on my proposition. I’m sure you’ll find it most...enlightening. I will be able to send you Jamison’s way if you change your mind."
Reluctantly, Valerie reached out and accepted the file.
X-X
image [https://yt3.ggpht.com/9CjVrJZaMuSucNRQDWdaZal2vHDaprJ5Ai12GK14SQXRqbHctWx9L32jv3kqdIuuovOV40nbfXs7=s640-c-fcrop64=1,00000000ffffffff-nd-v1]
Jamison Broadway
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Jamison was roused from his deep slumber by the rhythmic tapping that seemed to seep into his consciousness. It took a few seconds for him to fully register what was happening before he realized it was Sparks shaking him awake. "What's going on, bud?" he groggily asked his companion.
The tapping continued, growing more urgent and persistent, pulling Jamison out of his drowsiness. With a sigh, he pushed aside the thin blanket and got up from his makeshift chair-bed, feet hitting the cold floor with a thud. As he ran his fingers through his quills, he cursed himself for taking yet another nap.
Sparks pointed towards the door, reminding Jamison of their current location - about three hours away from Barricade Town. Memories flooded back as he remembered stopping to clean his M1 rifle before being visited by Jonah. With each step towards the door, Jamison's senses sharpened, and the fog of sleep cleared. He quickly checked the clock - 10:45 PM. "Ugh, this better be important," he grumbled as he ignored the untouched can of Apple Red on the table.
"Coming!" Jamison called out irritably as he reached the door, hand hovering over the latch. If there was any trouble outside, Sparks would have alerted him already.
Opening the door, Jamison was met with a familiar face. "Sonic?" he exclaimed in surprise. Jamison's gaze took in the sight before him, the lines of his face relaxing from their habitual frown.
With his trademark grin as wide and carefree as ever, the unmistakable cerulean blur greeted Jamison with a wave, "Evening, heard you've been through some tough times lately. Figured a good meal might help." He motioned with his free hand to a platter piled high with an assortment of diner classics that seemed almost comical in contrast to the lean figure holding it. Jamison could practically feel the warmth radiating from the stack of burgers, the glistening chili dogs, the golden fries, and a jug that caught the light in a way that promised the creamy sweetness of a vanilla milkshake.
Surprised, Jamison stepped aside to let the other hedgehog enter. His stomach growled, a grudging admission of the enticing aroma wafting into his small abode. Even as a seasoned soldier accustomed to rations and field meals, Jamison had to concede that the notion of a home-cooked feast had its appeal—particularly after the events he'd weathered recently.
Sonic walked past him and placed a platter on the bare table in the center of the room.
"This for me?" Jamison asked, raising an eyebrow and motioning towards the spread. The room was eerily quiet as his voice echoed. "Never took you for the domestic type," He commented, a wry smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as he watched Sonic's cheeks bulge with an ambitious bite.
Sonic paused mid-chew, grinning around his mouthful. "Do I look like I have the patience to cook? Nah, this is from everyone at Barricade Town," he said once he'd swallowed. "Told them I was coming to see you, and they insisted I bring you something."
"Thanks," he grunted out, "Sparks, feel free to take as much as-" But before he could finish, the wisp, with its effervescent glow, launched itself into the air eagerly diving into the mound of fries, making excited twinkling noises. He even had the gall to wink at him and do a little pirouette in mid-air, sending a scattering of static across the floor before disappearing under the golden starchy mound. "Nevermind."
Jamison's voice trailed off, a half-smile tugging at his lips despite the fatigue etched deep in his face. The vibrant display of Sparks' appetite dispelled the lingering shadows of his recent experiences, if only for a moment. He watched, bemused, as the wisp burrowed through the fries like a child discovering snow was edible for the first time. The simple act, so full of life and joy, was a stark contrast to the grim reality that had become his norm. There was something undeniably comforting about it, a small beacon of normalcy in a world that had tipped on its axis.
Sonic chuckled at the scene, shaking his head.
"Looks like Sparks has quite the appetite," he remarked with a smile.
"More than you'd expect." Jamison sat down across from Sonic, grabbed a burger, and took a bite. The flavors exploded in his mouth, a stark contrast to the bland rations he had been surviving on for weeks. The hedgehog leaned back in his chair, letting out a slow breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.
They ate in comfortable silence for a while, only interrupted by Sparks' occasional chirping and comments about the food.
Eventually, Jamison cleared his throat and gave Sonic a serious look. "So, what brings you here? Not that I'm not grateful for the food," he added quickly as Sonic opened his mouth to respond. "After our last conversation, I thought you would be happy to see the back of me."
Sonic shifted in his seat, the chair creaking under the subtle repositioning of weight. His expression softened, a rare vulnerability peeking through the usual bravado. "I owe you an apology," he said, scratching the back of his head in a gesture that spoke volumes of his discomfort. "For being so familiar before—it wasn't my place. I'm sorry."
"Apology accepted." Despite his attempt at nonchalance, Jamison couldn't help but feel a twinge of relief at Sonic's words. He’d been more than testy back there. “I’m sorry as well. Should’ve
kept my temper in check. I wasn’t at my best.”
A momentary silence echoed between them, absorbing the weight of their words. Sparks hiccupped in the background, almost as if on cue, bringing a soft chuckle from both men. The tension seemed to dissolve in the sound, giving way to a hesitant but fragile camaraderie. It was new terrain for Jamison.
"Does this mean we're friends?" Sonic asked, grinning ear to ear.
Jamison shifted in his seat and shrugged lightly. "Let's not get ahead of ourselves, Hedgehog."
“Me or you?” He quipped back.
The veteran couldn’t help the grin this time. "Both." Jamison answered, taking another bite of his burger. Sonic gave a hearty laugh, shaking his head. He leaned back in his chair, looking genuinely relaxed for the first time that evening.
"So," Sonic drawled out, propping his feet up on the corner of the table and crossing his arms behind his head. His eyes drifted to the Jug of vanilla milkshake, still untouched amidst the debris of their feast. "You were in G.U.N.?”
The question seemed to come out of nowhere and for a moment the green hedgehog wondered how he jumped to that conclusion. He followed Sonic’s line of sight and then sighed, feeling quite silly for even starting to get worked up. The Guardian Units of Nations patch emblem, a ‘G’ surrounded by 8 stars and framed by crossed wheat stalks, and his Sergeant First Class bars were framed on the wall just behind and above the jug.
"Yes," he replied, avoiding Sonic's pointed gaze as he twirled the last fry through a puddle of ketchup on his plate. He forced himself down the road of diplomacy. He hoped the other hedgehog didn't notice a conspicuous absence next to it where a 5 x 12 frame hung flipped around. "Served for more than five years.”
The air seemed to grow heavy at the admission, and even Sparks seemed to pause mid-gobble at his mood. He gave his buddy a placating nod and while Sparks went back to eating, it was much slower.
"So, you're a hero too," Sonic said, although it sounded more like a statement than a question. Yet it couldn’t have hit harder if the blue blur tried.
"Just a soldier, Sonic," Jamison replied, turning his gaze towards the framed badges on the wall and clearing his tightening throat. "Soldiers aren't heroes by default. We just do what we're told."
‘Even if it’s nothing more than: Survive.’
“Well, you're a hero to me, man," Sonic replied, "and I'm betting you've been a hero to a lot more folks than you're willing to admit. It takes a lot to stand and fight."
The hedgehog decided not to correct him, staring at what was left of the burger before him. His fingers traced the edges of the bun absently, his mind whirring with memories he'd rather forget. The wars, the fallen comrades, the screams that still echoed in his dreams. Did a ‘hero’ have to deal with that?
Thankfully, Sonic seemed to sense his discomfort and quickly changed the subject. "So, what's your next move?" He asked with a hint of his usual nonchalance, leaning back in his chair and stretching his legs out before him.
Jamison looked at Sonic, really looked at him. This was a hedgehog who had seen more than his fair share of danger and come out with a grin every time. The question wasn't invasive or probing. It seemed born out of genuine curiosity and perhaps even concern.
"My business is taking me to Spiral Hill Village," Jamison replied after a moment's deliberation, "after that, I move on to the next town."
The hedgehog settled back into his chair and folded his arms in exaggerated thought, a small grin creeping onto his face as if coming to some grand conclusion. "Well, would you look at that! We're headed the same way!"
Jamison tilted his head, his brows knitting together. "You too? What's your business in Spiral Hill Village?"
"What’s yours?” Sonic countered.
“My own.” He stated.
“Second verse, same as the first.”
Jamison raised an eyebrow.
“What? Can't a guy have some business of his own?" Sonic replied with a cheeky grin.
That caught Jamison off guard, and he found himself chuckling, quickly covering his mouth with the back of one hand. "Indeed, you can, Sonic. Indeed, you can."
The hedgehog seemed to bask in the response, as if he had just won a great victory.
"Well then! I’ve got a party to get back to and a nap to catch," Sonic declared, standing up with gusto.
"But maybe we'll bump into each other again on the road. Spiral Hill Village isn't so big, after all."
With a tip of an imaginary hat, Sonic made to leave. "Take care of yourself, Jamison."
“You too, Sonic,” Jamison replied, watching as the hedgehog trotted off, his speed nothing short of phenomenal. He watched the dust settle in Sonic's wake for a while longer before he too stood up. “Let’s get to bed, Sparks. We got a drive tomorrow.”
Sparks made an agreeable sound, hopping onto Jamison's outstretched arm. It seemed the small creature had eaten his fill, his cheeks bulging with stashed food. Chuckling, Jamison set him on his bed before going to his room.
And as the hedgehog settled into bed that night, surrounded by the whispers of the wind and the gentle rustling of grass outside his window, Jamison drifted off to sleep with a rare smile on his face.