The Unholy Ones

4:: FELIX MORALES

Snowflakes fly into Felix's face as he shoves open the door of the bar, bottle of bourbon still in hand. He takes a long, final swig as he walks before throwing it into a snowbank, the glass shattering on the ice.

The night is dark, white snow glowing eerily against the deep purple sky. Snow falls thick and heavy, twirling in the bitter wind that batters Felix's skin, yet it doesn't prickle or react at all. Impervious to the chill, Felix walks on, alone.

Darkness shrouds the parking lot, cars all covered in snow, not light. Felix stops, and gazes out into the shadows.

He isn't as alone as it had previously seemed.

Raising his chin, he shoves his thumbs into his jacket as he saunters forwards.

A tall, slender man walks out of the far shadows, into the light of the one lone, flickering lamp that stands guard over the lot. His face is haggard, eyes squinting through the cold. Layers bulk him up, and a long coat flutters around him in the wind. Neither man slows their pace as they converge under the lone, towering streetlight.

"Felix Morales, I presume," the man begins, coming to a stop several feet away from Felix. The weak light barely illuminates each man's face.

"That's me," Felix says stiffly, raising an eyebrow. "Can't say I've met you before, though."

The space is tense, each man sizing the other up, analyzing stances and mannerisms. Between them, the air seems colder. The wind howls through the nearby forest.

"Detective Johnson," the man finally allows, pulling a gloved hand out of his pocket, gripping a badge tightly. He holds it up, then returns his hand back into the pocket. Felix's stomach suddenly tightens, wondering what he could possibly be in trouble for. "I just need to ask you some questions."

"I'm an open book, detective," Felix says easily, but internally, he's trying to decide the fastest way out of this situation without ending up on the ground, or attacking a police officer. Decisions have never been good with him; one wrong decision got him stuck in this hellhole, without--

"On record, Mr. Morales."

Felix blinks.

"Alright." Maybe this will be the right decision. Yes, this will be good. Redemption: one good decision to begin making up for all of the dark ones behind him.

Nodding, Detective Johnson doesn't step forward to cuff him, but turns, gesturing for him to follow. Reluctantly, Felix follows, stepping in the detective's footsteps through the thick snow. He is lead to a car on the far end of the lot, nearly obscured under a thick tree. Johnson pulls open the back door of the small car and points for Felix to get in.

The detective's eyes never leave Felix, as though he would suddenly shake off the submissive demeanor and viciously murder him.

But Felix just sighs and steps in, not bothering with a seatbelt as the door closes behind him.

Johnson buckles in up front and starts the car, heat blasting through the vents, melting all of the caked snow in Felix's thick hair. As he puts the car into gear and pulls away, Felix leans forward, knocking on the partition.

"Where are we going?"

"New York," he replies casually, and Felix's eyebrows shoot up.

"New York? Long drive."

"Yeah. Get comfortable."

And that's all he says. With a shrug, Felix kicks his feet up onto the worn leather seat and leans his head against the window, the glass cold against his forehead.

Determined to not fall asleep, he contemplates why he agreed to go with the detective. Perhaps it was the iron grip the guilt had on his insides, urging him to not against side with those in the wrong once again, to not make more decisions that could hurt the people around him. Perhaps it was the bourbon that still circulates through his veins, dragging his eyelids down as his head bangs against the window painfully.

But maybe it was just the slightest bit of intuition that there was something good waiting for him on the other end of Detective Johnson's interrogation.

Felix's vision wavers for a second, then goes black as he falls asleep in the back of an undercover police car on its way out of Colorado.

The door opens suddenly, dropping out from under the sleeping man. Felix's eyes open wide, and unnaturally quick he tucks a shoulder in and deftly flips his legs over his head, landing in a three-point stance on the ground outside of the car. Looking up, adrenaline rushing, Felix sees Detective Johnson standing over him, eyes wide, mouth opened as though he was going to say something.

Grinning tersely, Felix stands, closing the door behind him. Adjusting his coat, he looks around, chilly wind blowing through his messy hair.

The towering buildings of New York sway overhead, colors all muted under the darkening gray sky. Cars pass by, all honking at each other in the evening traffic. The businesses that line the street are all strict professional buildings: law firms, corporate sales, and other large companies that yield suit-wearing pricks that never get off their phones.

Behind Felix, the Detective coughs. Raising an eyebrow, Felix turns and follows the Detective into the police precinct. Several secretaries sit at desks behind-- assumably-- bulletproof glass; none look up as the Detective walks Felix in. Flashing a keycard, the Detective opens a thick door, holding it open for Felix.

After walking down several identical, monochrome concrete hallways, all laden with thick, padlocked doors, the Detective turns to a black door, labelled 'INTERROGATION'. Flashing his key card, the door opens for the Detective, and the pair walk into a dark hallway that looks nothing like the rest of the precinct.

Dark doors sit in the walls next to long panels of glass, all which show identical rooms within: white concrete walls, metal tables, two metal chairs each. The first rooms on the left and right of Felix are empty, but the next two are anything but. Felix smells the coppery scent of blood, and spies an agent leaning against a wall, holding a napkin to his forehead.

"That bastard got out of his cuffs and then slammed my head on the edge of the table. I'm going to need stitches," the man rages to his partner, who looks on irritatedly on the man within. "Why did we even agree to go get this guy?" Intrigued, Felix subtly turns his head to glimpse the man within.

He sits with his feet propped up on the table, leaned back casually in the chair as though he owned the place. The handcuffs dangle from his hands, and he points at them, white teeth flashing as he talks. "Look, Montoya! I got out of the cuffs!" His dark hair falls out of the perfect coif as he tosses his head back, roaring with laughter. Raising his eyebrows, Felix keeps walking. He was willing to bet that that man was in here for his obviously abnormal state of mind.

The Detective doesn't pause, doesn't even hesitate in his stride as he passes the man in the cell. The man calls out as Felix walks past the partition, "They've got another one! Montoya, you should go put cuffs on him. See how well that goes." And he erupts into another boisterous fit of laughter.

In the next room sits a girl, who couldn't possibly be older than twenty five. She wears all black, much like the man in the previous room. Her hair, however, is a pale blonde, and cut short just above her shoulders. Sitting in the chair, she calmly has one leg pulled up onto her lap as she just stares at the glass, head cocked. As Felix passes the glass, he could swear that she smirks and winks, but he loses sight of her as he follows the Detective into his own cell, directly adjacent to hers.

The small room is lit with harsh fluorescents, shining on the metal chair the detective has pulled out. He gestures for Felix to have a seat before walking back out of the room, slamming the door behind him. With a shrug, Felix sits down in the chair, leaning onto the table as he awaits his interrogation.

Word Count: 1377

What a motley crew. xoxo, sk