During the night, hours before dawn, Flake decided that he could sleep no more and shot out of his bed. Immediately, the man disrobed and searched his shack for some normal civilian clothing. He dug down to his hidden chest and shoved his armor, sword, knives, boots, and a few other valuables, then locked it, covered it, and hid its location once more. The man then calmly dressed in a thin woolen tunic, undergarments and thin leather shoes and left, looking little more than a commoner. He was completely unarmed, however his scars were enough to discourage any common man from asking for a fight.

Flake had taken a great many hits over his fighting career. Most of the more visible scars were caused by Drake, but he had a great story for each of them. His neck and face were more-or-less unharmed, miraculously, but the rest of his body had at least one scar over every muscle and bone. For a man so young, he had certainly taken far more than his fair share of hits. The most surprising thing about it is that each hit was taken on purpose, or so he says. He couldn’t help but think about his scars, as he no longer had his armor to cover them up.

After a long walk, Flake came across Drake in the town hall. Drak had finished his work early and left the garrison to meet Flake in this designated location. “Good, you got it!” Flake commented, applauding Drake. “Not so loud,” Drake responded, shushing his comrade as he quickly made his way over to him, “Delta Six?” he asked, frowning at Flake. Flake nodded silently, then pointed towards a vacated fruit stand and commanded, “stand there, and don’t make a big scene out of it.” Drake then nodded, then handed Flake a moderately large knife and walked over to his position. Flake took the knife and walked into an alleyway, concealing the weapon in his sleeve. 

The two waited in their positions until sunrise, when activity started to rise in the town square. “Time to shine,” Flake murmured to himself, then he rose from his position and started walking towards the market. Drake saw the man walk out of the alley, then shifted a little in his position, preparing a few lines. Flake walked through the crowd rather calmly, smiling innocently all the while, and headed towards the tax stand. When he made it to the tax stand, the wooden structure across from the fruit stand Drake stood at, Flake pulled out his knife and started madly chopping at the wood, resulting in a sudden panic.

The guards at the stall quickly rose from their positions and apprehended Flake, who gave up immediately after they reached him. Drake ran over as Flake was being chained and commented, “I saw what happened here, turn him.” The guards then turned Flake towards Drake, who stared into the bounty hunter’s eyes and growled, “did you conduct this treason willingly and thoughtfully?” Flake then spat in Drake’s face and shouted, “Yes! Of course, idiots! To hell with you all!” in the most immature tone he could muster. Drake and Flake then barely held in their laughter, in fact, Drake had to slap Flake’s face and grit his teeth to stop himself as the other guards laughed their heads off. “Take him to the small chambers, bottom of the First Dungeon.”

The guards affirmed their orders and two immediately left, practically carrying Flake as they went due to his light struggling. “I can’t believe it…kids nowadays…” one of the guards commented, shaking his head scornfully. Drake thought, [i]a kid who can get me?...I cant believe it either…[/i] and dismissed the guard to continue his duty and repair the stall.

Flake got hit a few times on his way to the dungeon, both guards having been agitated by Flake’s act. He got beaten twice, resulting in a black eye, a few bruises, and a possibly broken rib. [i]The things I do for a friend[/i] Flake commented, still struggling lightly as they made it to the first dungeon’s gate. “Open, we have a prisoner,” the first guard commanded, saluting the man in the turret, who then motioned for the gates to be opened. As always, the iron bars rose out of the guards’ way and allowed them to walk into the dungeon, carrying Flake. They had to force him through the doorway and into the dungeon, holding down his arms so he wouldn’t grab onto any bars. “This one’s a fighter,” a guard commented looking at the attendance keeper, amazed at the boy’s endurance, “What’s your name, son?”

Flake responded, “The names’ Alphonse. That’s all you scum are getting.” He then amassed a large bit of saliva and spat in the face of one of the guards, who promptly knocked the wind out of Flake in response. “A real fighter,” the guard added, wiping the spit out of his face as the other guard wrote down the name, “we were told to take him to the small chambers in the basement.” The guard with the attendance sheet then commented, “go ahead, there’s plenty of room in the first cell.” The guards then escorted Flake over to the stairwell and practically kicked him down.

Flake landed at the bottom of the stairs face-first, then rolling upright and running towards the other wall with extremely tiny steps due to his chains. “Get the hell back here!” one of the guards shouted in exasperation, sprinting after Flake, then tackling him to the ground. They opened the cell with the assassin in it and commented, “you’re getting friend you might just like! A traitor, just like you!” one of the guards said as the other one lifted Flake by the collar and the leg-chains and chucked him into the room. The guard quickly smacked Flake over the head another time, just to be sure, and unshackled him, hastily exiting the cell and locking the door. Flake lay motionless on the floor as the other two guards left, both commenting on how they deserved a rank-up.

Finally, after a few moments, Flake looked over to Raine on the floor and, after recognizing her, enthusiastically commented, “well whaddaya know! It’s the accursed assassin, in the flesh!” as a bit of blood trickled down his nose. He then dizzily rose to his feet, brushed himself off, and sat down on a “bed." He felt his face for wounds, and thus pinched his nose to stop the bleeding.