Tritone
Copyright© 2010 by Lxndr
Chapter 3
The Marshal's boots crunched through the charred remains of the building. He flipped out his badge to the acne-scarred police officer standing in the middle of the ruins, who nodded to him. Prodding the body jutting out of the ruins with his toe, he turned to the officer. "You're sure it's him?"
Same height, same build, he thought, it's got to be Romeo. A grin spread across his face. Now that the father's fallen, the daughter will be easier to catch.
"He does not look like a great thief," the officer said, his accent thick, his voice cracking. "But yes, we are pretty sure, Mister... ?"
The Marshal looked over the officer; he looked like a boy playing dress-up, a child pretending to be an adult. Probably a Nimrod. "Donovan. Or simply call me Kyle."
"My name is Szczeony. I understand if you cannot say it," the officer said. "They call me Lucky," He offered his hand to the Marshal. "You are rare in the Marshals, yes?"
The Marshal's face twisted in insult and disgust. He ignored the offered hand. "You mean that I'm a nigger, Mr. Lucky?"
"That," the Pole said, "and that you are Nimrod." He grinned a gapped, toothy grin. "You have quite a reputation, Mr. Donovan."
The Marshal squinted in the early morning sun "Uh-huh," he said, shading his eyes with a gloved hand. "You were, what, 15 when you Awakened?" He pulled a pack of Fatima cigarettes out of his pocket and stuck one in his mouth. "You got a light?"
"Fourteen. And you were fifty?"
The officer - Lucky? - pulled a pack of matches out of an inside pocket.
"Sixty-four." And feeling it every day. The Marshal sighed. What good is immortality when you still feel old?
"You look younger," Lucky said, grinning, as he struck a match. The two men flinched for a moment at the fire. Then he held it to the Marshal's cigarette. "They say this Romeo had Gifts, yes?"
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