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I’m not sure if this whole being a warrior thing was ever gonna feel right. I mean, I was definitely a piece of this herd now, right? Truly and wholly and whatever. I had every right to walk where I pleased, talk how I saw fit (damn straight) and piss and shit up in this bitch (I mean, I say that like I’m going crazy with it but I’m not, I swear). But that’s where I drew the line with my membership; I could never see myself with the authority to tell someone to get the fuck outta here if I felt like it. I mean, hell, there was still a piece of me that expected someone to kick my ass out if they felt like it. Tossing dead weight ‘n whatever.
But I was walking the border now, what with that whole new feeling of naked vulnerability that was fucking with me. And walking the border had to mean something if I was gonna encounter someone who wasn’t a part of the herd, which spooked me, but what the hell was I gonna do? Ignore it?
Turns out, it was Chico who saw the dude first, from up on high. Got someone, he told me through our link.
I saw that I wasn’t too far from the guy. Is he in the herd?
Nah, no smell like it.
What’s he smell like?
Flowers ‘n shit.
Oh word.
Ye. Pretty boy. You might like.
Fuck off.
Roger.
I picked my way through the snow-covered underbrush, breaking through the trees to the clearing where the guy stood, tantalizingly close to the scent-markers. The snow broke into red at his feet, which got my attention real quick--but then I realized they were roses and that Chico was right when he said the bastard reeked of them. I mean, roses are pretty, but it was weird for someone to be wreathed with their fresh scent in the middle of goddamn winter. I mean, I’ve seen stranger shit, I guess.
I approached him, not quite catching the salt on his hide that would tell me he was an Edge bro, and not recognizing him anyway, so. I guess I was my job to catch him on the border. “Yo, what’s good,” I hailed him while Chico continued to fly above on his soft owl’s wings, “You got business here?”
"talk"
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