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Description

Cole looks back at his phone to verify the address he's been given. It was an industrial block number, now it's a warehouse number within. He trots alongside a seemingly endless line of such structures, each looking emptier than the last, until he reaches the one with the correct number carved into its otherwise mute surface. The door's open on a vast dark area, the air coming from it, hotter from the day's sunlight and smelling like burnt rubber and metal stronger than the general air of the surrounding area. He hesitates a moment, stress level choking him, thinking about turning back and going home. Don't they say it's the journey that counts, rather than its destination? He hadn't really thought of the latter before reaching it, but just now he realizes sheepishly that he finds it rather intimidating. Then he thinks of the shame of going back home with his tail between his legs, essentially having failed the mission; he would probably have to answer to the stranger and give him back his money. No way. He inhales deeply, filling his lungs with the cooler, slightly cleaner air of the outside, and walks in.

Near a small structure inside the building that could be a toolshed, he spots two figures. He essentially silences a few alarm signals going off inside his mind, and walks up to them directly and decisively. One of the figures, spotting him first, nudges the other. They meet with him; underneath their hoods, two smiles form, and they surprise him with a friendly-ish tone.

“You're Mac's carrier?” one of them asks; he barely can slip in an unconvinced, nearly mute “yeah” before the two start laughing; not really a mocking or malevolent laugh, instead warm almost, but still carrying that dismissive undertone that causes him to shut down. Is he even supposed to know who they're talking about? Probably; but he can only assume it's the same guy who gave him the quest. Better some guess work than further looking like he has no clue what he's doing.

“Man he's so quiet.”

“Mac gets his carriers younger and younger, at this rate the next one will show up with a pacifier in his mouth, hehe.”

Cole sort of pouts in response, unsure if he even should say anything, seeing as they're not really talking to him, and kind of upset about these guys obviously not taking him seriously. Has he not gone through quite the journey already to meet with hem? But as awkward as the situation is, their cheerful tone still manages to put him somewhat at ease. If he sticks around, he feels, perhaps he could be friends with them.

“Are you hungry pal?” one asks as if to confirm it.

“Sure,” he answers almost too loud for his liking; the question of dinner had been on his mind for a while now, and it was a cry directly from the gut.

“Hey you hear that? He's got a voice after all! Cute!”

“Here ya go pal, help yourself. Sit tight while we check what you brought!” they hand him a brown paper bag in which he finds a hotdog. He gives them the backpack in exchange; they turn their backs on him to look into the bag, and he wastes little time examining the food before he starts wolfing it down.

They take turns checking the content of the backpack, exchanging some expressions he can hardly catch. All he can tell is that they sound satisfied. Adding to his relief, one of them comes to pat him on the shoulder.

“Thanks pal, you did a good j...”

Something in the air suddenly and instantly changes as if time had just skipped to a completely different climate – he feels it. The sleeve of his shirt is left in the guy's hand, he grips it stronger, pulls on it, looks it up; shakes it in a move that he can tell is filled with panic and disappointment. He lets it go in an angry shove, and turns to the other stranger. Cole freezes; he's not used enough to that sort of situation to be able to tell what's going on, why the stranger's behavior changed so suddenly and why he's not telling anything. But he knows better, instinctively, than to ask or say anything at all.

The two take turns typing things on their phones, show each other their screen seemingly to communicate without words. He swallows his food uneasily as the exchange keeps going for what feels like an eternity. He knows better than to open his mouth just following the evolution of their faces, distorted into dark wrinkles under their hoods, long before they both turn to him, silent as the loneliest hour of night, and one of them shows him his phone screen. On it, are typed the following words :

“dont move not a noise or ur lifes over”

He knows he's in big trouble, even before he can manage to detach his panicked stare from the phone screen and meet the object pointed at him right next to it : the barrel of a gun. All he can do is stare in shock. He wants to disregard their warning and beg for his life, but perhaps thankfully, couldn't say anything either way. The situation hits him like a brick wall at high speed. He's far from home and only three people know where he is – two of which could end him at any moment, and the third one he just met today, may or may not even know as much as his name – or nickname, or whatever “Mac” is; may or may not care for his safety at all...

Description

Cole looks back at his phone to verify the address he's been given. It was an industrial block number, now it's a warehouse number within. He trots alongside a seemingly endless line of such structures, each looking emptier than the last, until he reaches the one with the correct number carved into its otherwise mute surface. The door's open on a vast dark area, the air coming from it, hotter from the day's sunlight and smelling like burnt rubber and metal stronger than the general air of the surrounding area. He hesitates a moment, stress level choking him, thinking about turning back and going home. Don't they say it's the journey that counts, rather than its destination? He hadn't really thought of the latter before reaching it, but just now he realizes sheepishly that he finds it rather intimidating. Then he thinks of the shame of going back home with his tail between his legs, essentially having failed the mission; he would probably have to answer to the stranger and give him back his money. No way. He inhales deeply, filling his lungs with the cooler, slightly cleaner air of the outside, and walks in.

Near a small structure inside the building that could be a toolshed, he spots two figures. He essentially silences a few alarm signals going off inside his mind, and walks up to them directly and decisively. One of the figures, spotting him first, nudges the other. They meet with him; underneath their hoods, two smiles form, and they surprise him with a friendly-ish tone.

“You're Mac's carrier?” one of them asks; he barely can slip in an unconvinced, nearly mute “yeah” before the two start laughing; not really a mocking or malevolent laugh, instead warm almost, but still carrying that dismissive undertone that causes him to shut down. Is he even supposed to know who they're talking about? Probably; but he can only assume it's the same guy who gave him the quest. Better some guess work than further looking like he has no clue what he's doing.

“Man he's so quiet.”

“Mac gets his carriers younger and younger, at this rate the next one will show up with a pacifier in his mouth, hehe.”

Cole sort of pouts in response, unsure if he even should say anything, seeing as they're not really talking to him, and kind of upset about these guys obviously not taking him seriously. Has he not gone through quite the journey already to meet with hem? But as awkward as the situation is, their cheerful tone still manages to put him somewhat at ease. If he sticks around, he feels, perhaps he could be friends with them.

“Are you hungry pal?” one asks as if to confirm it.

“Sure,” he answers almost too loud for his liking; the question of dinner had been on his mind for a while now, and it was a cry directly from the gut.

“Hey you hear that? He's got a voice after all! Cute!”

“Here ya go pal, help yourself. Sit tight while we check what you brought!” they hand him a brown paper bag in which he finds a hotdog. He gives them the backpack in exchange; they turn their backs on him to look into the bag, and he wastes little time examining the food before he starts wolfing it down.

They take turns checking the content of the backpack, exchanging some expressions he can hardly catch. All he can tell is that they sound satisfied. Adding to his relief, one of them comes to pat him on the shoulder.

“Thanks pal, you did a good j...”

Something in the air suddenly and instantly changes as if time had just skipped to a completely different climate – he feels it. The sleeve of his shirt is left in the guy's hand, he grips it stronger, pulls on it, looks it up; shakes it in a move that he can tell is filled with panic and disappointment. He lets it go in an angry shove, and turns to the other stranger. Cole freezes; he's not used enough to that sort of situation to be able to tell what's going on, why the stranger's behavior changed so suddenly and why he's not telling anything. But he knows better, instinctively, than to ask or say anything at all.

The two take turns typing things on their phones, show each other their screen seemingly to communicate without words. He swallows his food uneasily as the exchange keeps going for what feels like an eternity. He knows better than to open his mouth just following the evolution of their faces, distorted into dark wrinkles under their hoods, long before they both turn to him, silent as the loneliest hour of night, and one of them shows him his phone screen. On it, are typed the following words :

“dont move not a noise or ur lifes over”

He knows he's in big trouble, even before he can manage to detach his panicked stare from the phone screen and meet the object pointed at him right next to it : the barrel of a gun. All he can do is stare in shock. He wants to disregard their warning and beg for his life, but perhaps thankfully, couldn't say anything either way. The situation hits him like a brick wall at high speed. He's far from home and only three people know where he is – two of which could end him at any moment, and the third one he just met today, may or may not even know as much as his name – or nickname, or whatever “Mac” is; may or may not care for his safety at all...