No. 62 Claremond Street

8.1 // The Unforeseen Notice

This is all wrong. Tony's not supposed to do this. Tom muses as he walks out of No. 62, the porch creaking a D# as he treads on it. He looks away from Tony, glancing at the once again locked houses. Why do they keep locking themselves- Focus. How do I stop this?

He hurries when Tony reaches the parked ice cream truck, the gigantic strawberry ice cream cone on its roof glinting vermilion under the sunset.

Michael steps out of the truck from the driver's seat, grabbing a hefty black backpack, his blue Mohawk combed to one side.

Tom takes in a deep breath, Michael would understand he explains.

"Agent Hornbill," he calls. "Thanks for coming-"

"Anthony, could you check your device and follow the on-screen instructions?"

Did he just ignore him?

"Yeah," Tony answers, a lopsided smirk on his face when he sees his stunned brother. "And I told you last time. You call me Tony."

"Oh, sorry," Michael says, looking up from his tracking device. "Could you check, Tony?"

Tom exhales sharply. "Agent Hornbill?" His hands clench into fists when he sees the towering agent kneel down to his brother, and help him accept the notifications on the bronze mirror.

"Agent Hornbill, as I was saying-"

"So you want me to scan the neighborhood for terrorists?" Michael asks.

Tom scrunches his face after hearing this derogatory word. Xenoxians aren't terrorists. Yes, they use violence to get what they want, but what about the ICJ?

Aren't what they're doing violent too? Using telepaths to hijack minds and drive them to death. That's worse than what the Xenos gang is doing. They didn't kill ten million of their enemies since their founding.

"Yeah," Tony answers. "Also, can you suggest any good houses? We're moving out."

Tom's eyes widen. Since when did they agree on this?

"That's not what we've disc-"

"That's a good move, Tony," Michael says, avoiding gaze completely with Tom. "This house's already become a crime scene."

"Michael," Tom snaps. "I need some time with Tony, alone."

He maintains his glare as Michael looks up at him.

He nods. "Okay." He gets up, placing his tracking device back into his pocket.

He takes something else out, a black device the size of a thumb. "The ICJ wanted to hand this to you, Mr. Thomas Banks."

Tom takes the device when Michael hands it to him. He exhales slowly. It's a voice recorder. He presses the sole button on it, a red button, eyes widening when he recognizes the grating voice that plays out.

"Tom, where have you been? You said you and your brother are moving to the dorms of Maven Academy-"

He stops the recording, this can't be happening. He catches a glimpse of his brother who's pale in shock.

"D-Diselhock," Tony stammers.

Tom shakes his head, his surroundings going blurry, a loathing tune filling his ears. The tune of the creaky gramophone in Keith Diselhock's study.

"What?" Diselhock, a man in his late thirties, though the huge scar across the left side of his face make him look older, asks, leaning back on his recliner. The gramophone cracks a tune in the corner, across the vintage-style study. "What in the blistering hell are you talking about?"