Oscar walks through the cracked streets. He turns the wrong corner and finds himself at a dead end.
Two teenagers come up from behind, blocking his path. Their jeans are tattered and their guns clearly visible.
One walks forward. She wears an oversized army shirt and a dangerous expression, but more unsettling, her eyes are two different colors, one grey and the other an unsettling yellow.
“What you doing here, pretty boy?” she taunts. Oscar straightens and looks her in the eye.
“I have as much right to be here as you do,” he returns, perhaps unwisely. The girl laughs and shakes her head.
“See, I don’t think so,” she responds. “I think you’re on our turf, and if you don’t get off, you’re gonna end up on the wrong side of my Colt.”
“Your turf?” Oscar asks incredulously. The girl shakes her head.
“You’re out of your depth, boy.”
“I don’t think I’m the only one.” In response, the girl stops with her hand on her hip. The look on her face, if possible, becomes more dangerous.
“And why’s that?” she asks.
“You don’t have what it takes to shoot me,” Oscar challenges. She laughs drily.
“We’re not gonna kill you, trust fund baby. I, for one, always go for the feet, and Anubis here always loves a good kneecapping.” The boy behind her grins and cocks his pistol. “So get.”
Oscar doesn’t move. The girl pulls him down by the collar.
“Look,” she snarls, “I don’t walk your streets. I don’t crash your high society balls.” When she says this, a flicker of recognition passes across Oscar’s face.
“That’s not true,” he retorts. Her expression darkens. She pushes him back and cocks her gun in one motion, pointing it at his chest.
“I’ve never crashed one of those stupid parties,” she snaps, her voice tight with controlled anger.
Oscar, showing real fear for the first time, holds up his hand.
“Relax,” he responds frantically, “I’m just here to visit my grandmother.”
Surprise then skepticism pass over the girl’s faces. She looks back at the boy who shrugs. She shrugs back and drops the pistol.
“You better not be playing us, Red Riding Hood,” she threatens. She and the boy part to let Oscar pass. He starts to walk through them but stops near the girl.
“You’re playing a dangerous game,” he warns.
She steps closer and, though shorter, seems to tower over him.
“I’m not the only one, and the difference is, I know how to play mine, and I always win. Remember the name Horus, and pray to whatever pathetic god you keep that you never hear it again.”
Oscar, once again reminded of the real danger of the situation, walks away
without responding. Horus bangs her fist against the alley wall in frustration.
“He recognized me,” she snaps. Anubis shrugs.
“Maybe, maybe not,” he responds. “He seems like a guy who likes talking out of his ass.”
“Even so,” Horus says, “I need to be careful. They already think I’m not worth their champagne towers.”
“Champagne towers?” Anubis snorts.
“Yup,” Horus confirms. “Always gets knocked over by some drunk two hours in.” When their laughter dies, Horus suddenly sighs. “I have to get back. There’s another hell fest tonight. It’s not a medal ceremony without a champagne tower, right?”