#punkstrade

Ripper didn't bother explaining himself and the two continued along in silence with Greg falling back behind Ripper once more.

The tunnels down here twisted and turned and forked and merged, but there was nothing special about them. Just regular old sewers. Or at least what Greg expected sewers to be like. He wasn't exactly one to go ducking about sewers in his off time, but they were all probably about like this. Stone and moss and greasy water.

After a long stretch of silence, Greg opened his mouth--probably to whine some more, he hadn't quite decided yet--when the sound of rustling came from ahead. Ripper froze and Greg stopped behind him. He didn't need to see Ripper put a finger to his lips to know not to say a word.

Once even their breathing was silent, Greg strained his ears to hear whatever Ripper seemed to be zoning in on. There was nothing, though. Not even the drop of condensation from the tunnel walls sliding down to the ground or dropping into the watery pathway.

"Leave, now," Ripper hissed, but Greg shook his head.

"No, I want to go with you. I can help!" With what, he wasn't sure, but he could help.

Ripper stubbed out his cigarette with his fingers and dropped it to the ground where it fell silent into the river of grease. Then he spun his torch on the corner of a wall and Greg froze at the sight of blood, stained into the stone. Some sign or symbol he'd never seen in his life before, but couldn't be good. "Relinque immitis hospes."

Caught between his desire to follow Ripper to the ends of the earth and his shot of adrenaline commanding him to run, Greg stood stuck, unable to decide what to do. He couldn't understand Ripper's Latin, but he could guess the meaning. "Get the fuck out."

"Go," Ripper murmured, making the decision for him. The older boy clicked off his torch, sliding further down the tunnel, his feet silent in the water. Greg--for all his shame--turned round and splashed off in the other direction, tearing down the tunnels, torch flashing about and dancing across the walls. Nothing but evil lay further down those sewage lines, and if Ripper wanted to go at it alone...

Greg found a ladder up to the streets and scrambled out to clean air and coolness of night. He sprawled out across the road, heaving and panting at he caught his breath, jacket sticking to his shirt, shirt sticking to his skin. He couldn't even remember if it was covered in slime or sweat anymore.

Sighing, he placed his fingers back down for the E minor chord. He tried to curl them, like Ripper said, and strummed against the strings. The sound reverberated back at him for a second before his fingers lost their grip and the chord vibrated out of tune.

Shaking his head, Greg growled, "I can't do it," and shoved the acoustic guitar back at Ripper. "'m not any good at it."

Ripper took the guitar back, running his fingers over the neck. A smirk set his fag in the corner of his mouth as he started to strum out a little tune. Nothing Greg recognized. Ripper's fingers danced up and down the frets, hardly pressing them, yet keeping the sound in tact as he plowed through the dangerous, taunting minor chords.

"No, I suppose you aren't," he murmured as the last few notes echoed around the abandoned studio floor.

With a shuffle of boots against wood, he rose from his seat--a large packing crate he often referred to as his throne. In the corner of the room behind some dusty old books and maps, he fetched the guitar case out and placed the acoustic back in it none to reverently. He shoved the box back under the drop sheets and battered posters.

"Be better to start you in running shoes," he muttered, moving around the other side of the workbench. From beneath the tablecloth he pulled out a shiny, black leather case, and Greg's mouth watered.

Ripper grinned, popping the metal clasps on either end. Then he lifted the lid open and stepped back to give Greg a better look at the shimmering, apple wood-dusted finish of his Hagstrom. It was a thing of beauty, with polished metal edging and beautiful crafting. Greg's hand was halfway out to touch it before he even thought to glance over for permission.

Slipping a hand into the softly padded interior, Ripper pulled the guitar out and passed it over to Greg. "For practice," he insisted, his finger jabbing at Greg with an unspoken warning. "Now focus on what you're doing."

Greg gave a silent nod, his mind trained only on the guitar. Absolutely brilliant.