[center][img]https://i.imgur.com/wKZoxNV.jpg?2[/img][/center] [i]The first thing he smells is the damp air, flecked with sea salt. No, not here, not again. Standing on the ports of Paris Island. Two words being repeated at him over and over against the backdrop of a stolen generation chanting on the beach. “ Shoot him!” It’s not the sight of blood that scares Virgil. Violence is a constant of Dakota that you have to get used to. That’s what everyone, from his neighbours to his math teachers to the old janitor who used to clean his locker every afternoon, tells him. He doesn’t agree. The gun trembles in his hand. He’s not scared of the blood. It’s how easy it is to use it. The lack of effort. That all it takes is a squeeze of a trigger to kill. The mechanical nature of it which makes him queasy. “ Shoot him, Virgil!” “ I can’t.” He drops the gun, tossing it away. “ I can’t.” He keeps saying it until his throat grows hoarse. Chaos suddenly erupts around him. The sound of the gun is distinct above the rage of 250 high schoolers. They parts like a panicked herd of animals, the choppy beat of helicopter blades above cawing like ravens. All Virgil can do is choke on the fog and fall deep into the cold water. He is burning and one question comes to his mind. How did it all go wrong so fast? [/i] [hr] The sound of swearing and a fist clanging wildly against metal awoke Virgil from his daydream. He lifted his head up from his crossed arms that were laid on the bar. “ KZZZZTTTT - well, that’s what I’m tellin’ ya, Rubberband. It’s crazy how shit turned sideways this week. They’re already blockading the I-80 to Dakota ‘cause of this shit at Paris Island - KZZZZZZZZTTTTTTT” Dakota City was entering the cusp of winter now, windows frosted white and the sky tinged a dour grey. He’d been patrolling non-step for several hours along Hemingway’s Port Trail before taking a turn on 42nd Malcolm to recharge at Grant’s. Grant’s was one of Dakota City’s beating hearts. Its weathered brick walls, amber windows and marbled floors were ossified into the urban concrete of the city like fossils. Virgil still found it hard to believe that Morrison Grant had turned 84 years old last week. He looked barely a day past 50. Every time he went into the diner before the Paris Island incident, Grant was always there, serving coffee, his signature griddle cakes and overeasies. It was now disturbingly empty on a Monday afternoon where at least half of the tables would be filled and a line of hungry customers would be waiting outside. Dust sat on the linoleum seats. Ceiling fans chattered. Now, it was only him and Grant. “ You alright there, son?” The diner owner stopped wiping a dish and looked at him with slight concern “ It’s not wise to come out all this way, Kilowatt Kid, especially now that DCPD’s keeping an eye out for you. ” “What and miss the chance to meet my biggest fans?” Virgil groused sarcastically before taking a sip of his latte. The familiar rush of caffeine tingles through his fingertips. Absorbing juice from a generator couldn’t beat the taste of Grant’s black brews. Out of the corner of his eye, he notices a document left on top of the cafe counter while Grant has his back turned to him, rifling for something in the cupboard. He leans over to look at it. He makes out two words - Eviction - and - Warning - before a leathery hand snatched it away from his prying eyes. “ What was that?” “ Nothing you need to concern yourself with, son.” The old man signed as Virgil gave him a glare of disbelief. “ You don’t need to fight every battle, son. There’s some things you can’t put in cuffs.” “ You’re not closing down, are y-?” “ Relax, son. It hasn’t come to that yet.” Grant chuckled before frowning. “ But, with the rates the city council’s been pushing, I’ve been diving into my retirement savings to stick around.” He looked wistfully at the old grandfather clock that sat in the corner of the restaurant and gave a little laugh. “ I’ve been living on borrowed time anyway. Everyone I knew moved out of this neighborhood and every customer I wave to and smile at is a stranger to me.” His grip on the dish towel grows tighter and Virgil sees his eyes almost become hollow. “ I gave Dakota everything I had, yet, this is how I get repaid.” His dark expression washes away in a moment’s notice, replaced with a worn smile. “ That’s enough from me. You want a refill?” “ Nah, man.” Virgil shook his head. “ Just give me a mocha to go - ” The front door banged open, the bell knocked off its hinge as Virgil heard the click of receivers. Dumbass 1, 2 and 3 had decided to ruin his afternoon break by robbing a nearly empty cafe. Great. The ski masks were fitted loosely over their heads. Hell, the one standing to the right had decided his get up wasn’t intimidating enough and decided to wear a pair of bright neon scuba goggles to complete the ensemble. The one in the front of the trio waved his pistol in the air like a conductor's baton. “ Everyone, get your wallets - “ He choked on his last words as he looked wide-eyed at Grant and Virgil who were staring daggers at him. His feet began straying backwards, stumbling slightly, as the fluorescent lights quavered above him. “ I’ll just - uh - well -” “ How long will it take?” Virgil asked Grant calmly. “ About two to three minutes.” Grant spoke nonchalantly. “ Don’t make too much of a mess.” Virgil slipped off the counter stool and let a spark lazily click between his fingers. The robbers looked between themselves, holding onto their guns like life buoys, unsure of what to do next. “ So……...” Virgil slowly drawled. “ Which one of you wants to pay for my coffee?”