Private The Docks Two Kits in a Trench Coat

[Ressik Pike]

Ressik came through the cellar opening in a low, fluid motion, boots barely sounding against the dirt floor as he straightened. His eyes flicked across the space, adjusting to the light spilling through the open hatchway.

A fresh cloud of disturbed dust curled and wisped lazily where it had been upset moments before.

His jaw tightened, and for the briefest moment, he stood still.

Then he moved purposefully toward the rickety staircase.

He slipped through the cellar door and into the alley beyond, the cool evening air cutting through the lingering smoke clinging to his coat. His nose twitched once, catching the faintest trace of movement ahead. He adjusted his grip on the knife and followed, pace quickening into a smooth, relentless stride.

The alley spilled out toward the docks, its freshly lit lanterns casting light wide across the planks and rigging beyond. The space ahead yawned open, promising nowhere to hide, and nowhere to turn without being seen.

Perfect.

His lip curled faintly.

“Can’t run forever, kit…” he murmured under his breath.

The kit’s footsteps scattered across the boards ahead, frantic and uneven.

Ressik followed.

There were only so many places a frightened animal could go when cornered with the sea at their back.

And he intended to be waiting when the running stopped.

 

[Ruffano Quickwhistle]

The smoke thinned as they broke out into the street, but the chaos had only changed shape.

The waning afternoon sunlight glimmered across a swelling crowd, beasts gathering in tight clusters as more beasts from the Fire Brigade surged past in a thunder of boots and shouted orders. Bells clanged from a cart nearby, sharp and insistent, cutting through the haze.

Ruffano did not stop until they had cleared the worst of it.

Only then did he loosen his grip.

Cricket’s feet touched the cobbles, and for a moment he simply stood there, chest heaving, one paw still half-raised as if he feared she might vanish if he let it fall completely.

He winced.

A thin line of red marked his wrist where her claws had caught him. Another sting burned along his forearm. He pressed at it absently, breath hitching, then let out a faint, unsteady exhale.

“You’ve… got a bite, don’t you…”

It wasn’t a reprimand. Not even close. His gaze dropped to her, searching quickly, making sure she was still whole.

“You did right,” he said, softer now, voice roughened and real. “D’you hear me? You did right.”

The noise of the street pressed in around them, but he held there a moment longer, grounding himself.

“We’ll find him.”

—

“Ruffano Quickwhistle!”

The name cut through the air like a thrown blade.

Heads turned as Ruffano’s ears flicked, his posture tightening on instinct as a figure pushed through the forming crowd, ink-stained paws and paper tucked beneath one arm, eyes alight with recognition.

“Care to comment for the Saturday Evening Smelt?” the reporter chirped, already circling. “Spotted slipping out of the Velveteen Curtain... Quite the venue for a return appearance, wouldn’t you say?”

Ruffano didn’t even look at him.

He stepped forward, angling his body to move past, placing himself just slightly between Cricket and the intrusion.

“Not now.”

“Oh come now,” the reporter pressed, keeping pace easily, smile sharpening. “Back to the livelier stages? Or is this research for your next performance?”

“There’s danger inside,” Ruffano snapped, sharper this time, breath still uneven. “Clear the way.”

A few nearby beasts chuckled.

“Danger?” the reporter laughed lightly. “From what, the wine list?”

More snickers rippled through the onlookers.

“Bit dramatic, even for you,” another voice chimed in.

Ruffano’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t rise to it. He pushed forward again, trying to break through the tightening ring of bodies, the questions beginning to overlap.

“Is this a comeback, Mr. Quickwhistle?”
“Care to address the rumors of your fall?”
“Who were you with inside?”

The crowd pressed closer, curiosity blooming into spectacle.

Ruffano turned, searching...

...and the space beside him was empty.

He stilled. For a heartbeat, the noise fell away. The smoke, the bells, the chatter... It all dulled to something distant and indistinct as his eyes swept the crowd, quick, sharp, disbelieving.

Nothing.

No flash of scales. No small shape weaving between bodies.

The crested gecko girl had vanished.

His throat tightened.

“…Cricket?”

No answer.

Behind him, the reporter was still talking, words spilling and eager, but Ruffano didn’t hear them anymore.

He stepped forward into the crowd instead, pushing past bodies, eyes searching, pulse rising all over again.

"Cricket!?"