Abandoned, the house sat—another set of occupants having given up on maintaining its corroded interior.
Gideon sits on the side of the street, hanging his head in frustration. Brandon sniffles next to him.
"Whadd'a we do, Gid?"
Malice seeps from Gideon's throat. "I don't know yet, Brandon. If our employer found the house, we should stay on the run."
Brandon shivers. "On the run? So we'll become homeless?"
"Yes, Brandon. Just for a bit." Gideon's eyes spark with a cruel idea. "I've got something in mind, pye."
Brandon tilts his head, curiosity pushing through the grief. "I trust you, Gideon. I'll do anything."
"Good. We're going to the bar."
"The bar? But the only one around is the Brimstone Bucket. It's full of—"
"Cons. Yeah." Gideon shrugs. "Alcohol and a good time smooths information out. Making it slip right out of drunk mouths."
Gideon grins.
"I'd say we pay our employer a visit, yeah?"
Brandon gasps, then shakes his head vigorously.
"Gidgid, we can't! I don't wanna die!"
"We won't, Brandon. I'll make sure of it. Remember?"
That seems to be enough for Brandon. His flames heat up slightly.
"F-Fine. I trust you." Brandon stands. "When we headin' out?"
Gideon follows Brandon's example, standing and stretching his back. "Twelve on the dot. That's when the juicy info dumps leak."
"How do you know?"
Gideon freezes.
The street LEDs flicker overhead, buzzing softly as the living flame awaits an answer.
"…Don't worry about it, Brandon."
Brandon stomps his foot, leaving the ground slightly singed. He pouts and blurts,
"Fine. If you're a secret drunk, then you could tell me."
"I'm not a drunk, pye."
"Sure, sure. Whatever you say, big guy."
Brandon crosses his arms and pivots his hip.
Gideon mutters under his breath and continues leading the way toward the bar