The Firehouse's dispatch calls out Harris Sarkisian's number, twelve. As in Engine Company 23, Truck Company 12. He doesn't need to listen to anything else after that, just suit up and run. That's it. That's his job. But he listens anyway, as he races through the shop, shrugging into his heavy uniform jacket.
"—commercial and residential fire, 2404 East Kilbourne Street," the dispatcher calls out.
"Holy shit! It's the Avantgarde!" Harris yells, grabbing the rail guards to swing into the pump truck, booted feet first.
Colin, always the driver, rumbles just like his diesel engine. "So it is?"
"I had a date there the other week! My... ah... It's a fancy place." Harris trails off. Now probably isn't the time to tell his company that Avantgarde is his dad's 'best kept secret in Wisconsin' or that it was the twenty-second blind date he set up for Harris.
Colin doesn't seem to mind a bit of chit-chat, though. "Only the best for Milwaukee's finest, huh?"
"You betcha!" Harris catches his finger-guns in the long side-mirror of the Truck 12. Super-cringe, but at least Colin can't see him from the driver's seat.
Lt. Jung, however—that's the truck twelve's officer Lt. Jung!—misses nothing.
"At least five guests are unaccounted for. Probably more," Jung says, climbing in. "Buckle up, Sarkisian."
"Yes, Sir!" Harris calls in.
Jung's bushy brows furrow under the shiny dome of his bald head as he looks for flaws.
The rush of adrenaline exaggerates how funny it is, so giggles tickle Harris' throat. He dry-swallows. "I'm all strapped in, Sir."
"You want stickers, enroll in kindergarten." Jung's face smoothens as much as the deeply cut folds by his mouth allow.
Why didn't he just bite his tongue? Lt. Jung doesn't make wrong calls. If he called Harris out, there was a perfect, by-the-book reason for it.
Just like on the day when Jung pulled Harris' dead-beat mother out of the car first, and Dad ended up in the wheelchair.... This was swift decision-making under pressure at its best, most definitely not connected to Lt. Jung banging Mom in secret...
It's better not to think about it, just like it's been better to not mention it to anyone. Dad has suffered enough!
Mercifully, Colin lays on the horn and the truck takes off. Faster, faster, faster! Can a pump truck racing to a fire drive fast enough to outrun all his sad shit?
The cars scramble out of their way, turning into pale streaks next to the red engine. The sirens scream over Milwaukee for someone whose life is more effed-up than his. He can walk into the fire and fix it for them.
No, it's not easy, but it's simple, and he loves it that way.
Colin stomps on the brakes. The mountain of red metal and shiny nickel nearly rears up like a buckling colt. Nice!
"We're here," Colin says.
"Thanks, Captain Obvious," Harris mutters, unstrapping.
There is no mistaking this building for any other hotel in Milwaukee. The blocky letters on the four-story building spell AVANTGARDE, and if that's not enough, there's a hexagonal tower on the hotel's street corner, topped with a bronze cupola. A few days ago, when he was chatting up a girl over seared ahi-tuna, the façade wasn't covered in smoke and the windows didn't glow a savage, pulsating orange... but even burning, the Avantgarde is striking.
No wonder the gawkers press at the patrol lines, gasping and taking selfies. Even the cops dart glances between shouting and pushing the crowd back. The local newscaster swings her microphone like a conductor's baton, and her cameraman films Fire Chief Villarreal's arrival instead of the EMS setting up a triage shop. Wrong move for the Local News at Six. Despite the Chief's soap-worthy name and looks, his commands don't add drama.
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Ablaze
Mystery / Thriller||Love Triangle between a Firefighter, an Arsonist and an Heiress ♡|| Deeply wounded by his mother's betrayal, Harris, a Milwaukee firefighter, doesn't accept human failings, including his own. That's until he saves a redhead from a burning hotel...
