┏━━━༻✿༺━━━┓
𝙻𝚎𝚗𝚗𝚘𝚡
┗━━━༻✿༺━━━┛
𝘕𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘮𝘣𝘦𝘳 18𝘵𝘩, 𝘍𝘳𝘪𝘥𝘢𝘺
Lennox trailed after the elderly guide through the dark and narrow alleys of the Warehouse District. He clutched his beige trench coat around him as the frigid wind whipped past his face and slid through the metal pipes suspended above his head.
The most he had heard of this part of the city was in Chase's stories. The florist had never been there personally. He felt a combination of curiosity and fear rise as he passed by the graffiti-covered walls, the rusted doors and ventilation, and the smothering piles of trash and debris.
He was curious about the people who inhabited this place, and what they wanted from him. The note had referred to a certain Sarlyn... the name seemed familiar, but he had no idea why.
His escort, aided by metallic joints, halted in front of a large dumpster and, shielding himself from the florist's view, tapped a code on a hidden keypad. The dumpster lid flipped open, revealing a slide-like tube that disappeared into the ground. Lennox's cyborg guide, after gesturing for Lennox to follow him, leapt—seemingly like a rabbit—into the hole. He chuckled as his form faded away into the abyss.
The florist, reluctant, took a deep breath and followed suit.
On the way down, flickering neon lights offered a dim light. As he reached the end, where the tunnel opened up to the outside, Lennox could hear the hum of machinery and the chatter of amicable voices. When the slide ended its course, he was led through a series of twists and turns, until the pair reached an arch crafted of copper pipage.
His escort stopped. "This is where I leave you, like-minded friend."
Before Lennox had a chance to reply, the other residents of the Warehouse District spilt out of the alleys, streets, and balconies. At first, it was the scrap flowers as well as the miscellaneous gifts that caught his attention, but then it was the people themselves.
Lennox was halfway through a gasp before he shoved it down.
There were dozens of them, of all shapes, sizes, and extremities. Some of them, like the guide, had metal limbs, eyes, and the like. Others had the occasional scale, fur, or feather. A few on the far end of the spectrum had a horn or two, and Lennox spotted some with tails or animalistic appendages. They were the gathering of the cyborg rejects from the Crimson Syndicate and the victims of bioengineering experiments from the Verita Aser.
There was a smattering of non-modified individuals as well, those with disdain and hatred towards the war and those spearheading it. All at once, they were the outcasts, the rebels, the misfits.
They were the Fringe.
Lennox experienced a conflicting mix of awe, pity, and, to his eternal disgust, fear. His gaze met the group's. They stared back at him, with their own combination of suspicion, curiosity, and blind acceptance.
He felt ashamed of his fear, even though it lasted only seconds. Most of them were children. They had been nothing but kind to him, but all he could do in return was gasp.
The florist knelt on one knee, and a child rushed up to him. A young girl with the ears and fur—patchy, but there nonetheless—of a fox handed him a flower, painstakingly made with bits of bent plastic and trash with a silver stem.
"Welcome, Lennox," a voice said behind him. He turned around and saw a woman standing there. She was tall and slender, with long black hair and familiar red-grey eyes. A brown jacket, dark jeans, and knee-high combat boots clung to her frame. She smiled and extended her hand. "I'm Sarlyn, the leader of the Fringe. And you, my dear, are the guest of honour."
He realized within moments that Mel and Sarlyn were one and the same. Which meant their leader, this Sarlyn person, she had handed him the note herself. But why? And she had been his father's mistress, so how could have she been operating a whole third front seemingly by herself?
Lennox awkwardly grasped her hand, unsure what to do to welcome the leader of an organisation previously unknown to him. "I don't know about the guest of honour, but I am honoured to be here, among such kind people. It's a breath of fresh air, compared to the acrid atmosphere of the war, Mel."
Sarlyn batted off the comment with the effort it took to bat her eyelashes. "Oh, you flatter us. Come now, we mustn't keep the cooks waiting." She waved them forward, but instead of leading the procession, the inhabitants of the Warehouse District led the way. In a line about three people wide, the group filed into what appeared to be a dining hall.
It was an expansive space. However, unlike others, it was wholly the Fringe's. The many mismatched couches, armchairs, and stools gave it a warm aura, while the temperature was assisted by the occasional fire pit. Assorted carpets were littered with belongings. This hall was lived in, and Lennox couldn't help but notice the striking contrast between this home and his own.
He doubted that his house could be called a home. Compared to what he was witnessing now... the shop was an ice palace.
Lennox followed Sarlyn to a table near the centre, where nothing short of a feast was laid out. He saw plates of bread, cheese, fruit, and meat, as well as bowls of soup, stew, and salad. He also noticed some dishes that he couldn't identify but smelled delicious. He wondered where the Fringe got their food from, and how they managed to survive despite the war outside their doorstep.
But one burning question poked and prodded at him.
Had they ever moved on from what the Brotherhood and the Syndicate did to them?
Sarlyn, as if sensing his curiosity, explained with no shortage of arm movements. "These are what the vendors of the neutral markets offer us, in return for the space and protection we give them. After all, we are the survivors of the war, the ones who escaped the horrors of the factions. We found each other in the shadows, in the margins, in the forgotten places. We built this place together, from scraps and ruins. We made our own rules, our own culture, our own identity, Lennox. It was only fair that we should share our bit of prosperity with the citizens who are merely victims of the Brotherhood and the Syndicate's whims. Wouldn't you have done the same?"
"I suppose. Although I don't have the resources for such things. What did you invite me here for? And just who are you? Mel? Sarlyn? Or someone else entirely?" Lennox asked before serving himself some soup and bread alongside the other residents.
"I am many things, Lennox. When required, a lover, like when I was Mel. Most of the time, I am the Fringe's dejected leader who's desperately searching for someone. This is where you would come in, Mr. Kendrick-Carson."
He regarded her sceptically. "Really? What makes you think I can help you? I can barely keep my shop open, not to mention my father's murderer is still on the loose, and he could come back at any moment for the rest of my family. As much as I sympathise with your cause, I'm not in a position to help you. If that's all, I must go; it's getting late. Enjoy your meal."
Lennox raised from the chair, glancing at the crowd of people before him. They only wanted their leader's happiness... and here he was, denying them that right in front of them.
Was he a bad person for that? Even when, realistically, he wasn't able to contribute anything meaningful? Why had they chosen him, out of everyone else, to help them? What did he have that someone else didn't?'
Sarlyn took his hands into her own. "Lennox, I implore you, hear me out. My sources tell me that my sister—the one who I am so desperately looking for—may have fallen into the hands of the Syndicate. I know that you're living with someone who remembers more about your time there. Please, can you ask them, on my behalf?"
He tore himself away from her. "Why can't you ask him yourself?"
"I have my suspicions about them. I can't have the Fringe discovered because I contacted the wrong person. Surely you understand, as you have your fair share of scepticism towards your guest. Unless you have a reason to trust them?" Sarlyn raised an eyebrow.
He pondered it. She was right... he didn't have a good reason to trust Ren. Yet he still did, to some extent. But why? Surely it was nothing as trivial as personal feelings? If he allowed personal feelings to influence his responses and decisions... Well, he might as well be dead already.
However, Lennox knew nothing of Sarlyn's motives. He didn't want to get involved in matters that neither concerned nor benefitted him.'
"No, I understand. But even still, now is not the time for me to partake in charity work. Surely, I can expect something in return for my efforts, limited as they may be?"
Sarlyn's hand glided along the table as she found her way back to her seat. "Of course. Not only will your establishment be labelled neutral, but the Fringe will also provide the funds to keep your floristry open for as long as we are able, or at least until you can support yourself again. And, if you assist us in reclaiming my long-lost sister, we will find someone for you as well: your father's killer."
She offered him all that as if it was nothing. Could the Fringe really have power similar to or equal to the Syndicate, perhaps even the Brotherhood?
Circumstances aside, the florist knew he'd be a fool to reject such an offer. "If those are your conditions, then I accept. Just who am I looking for?"
The leader of the Fringe uttered a name that Lennox didn't recognize, but her description bore an uncanny resemblance to Renato's features.
It was then that he remembered exactly why Sarlyn's name sounded so familiar to him; for that was the name of Ren's sister, whom he had mentioned a few weeks ago.
The one that was supposed to be dead.
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𝐆𝐨𝐭 𝐚 𝐬𝐨𝐧𝐠 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐤 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐠𝐨 𝐠𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐭 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫? 𝐂𝐨𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐢𝐭 𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 --->