FLYNN
The gargoyles stare. I stare back.
I have spent eleven years on this street. Eleven years of edge-trimming, soil pH testing, and manual aeration with a custom-forged pitchfork. I re-sodded my entire front lawn after the drought of '19. By hand. At night. Under floodlights. I built the fence between my property and the empty lot next door with pressure-treated cedar, sanded every post, and sealed it twice.
I wrote Section 7.
And this knife-eared bureaucrat in loafers just parked two enchanted surveillance rocks on my street and told ME I'm in violation.
The left gargoyle shifts. Just a fraction. Its head grinds toward Junia, and something in that eyeless stone face locks onto her like a scope finding a target.
No.
My boots move before the rest of me catches up. Three steps and I'm between Junia and the gargoyles, my shoulders squared, my body a wall of moss-green skin and faded cotton. The shirt stretches tight across my ribs.
"Flynn, what are you?—"
"Stay behind me."
The right gargoyle's head swivels. Both of them are watching me now. Good.
The left one takes a step. One heavy, grinding step. The sidewalk cracks deeper under its foot. A chunk of concrete pops loose and tumbles into Junia's destroyed wildflower bed.
More property damage. Caused by Valerius's enforcement apparatus. On MY street.
I plant my feet. Shoulder-width apart. Knees slightly bent. The same stance I used to hold a shield wall in the Kragmoor passes, except I was nineteen then and wearing armor instead of cargo shorts.
The gargoyle takes another step.
I put my hands on it.
Stone. Cold. Dense as a grudge. My palms flatten against its body and the thing weighs at least four hundred pounds. Its clawed feet dig furrows in the sidewalk as I push. My quads burn. My shoulders lock. The gargoyle pushes back, and for a second it's like shoving a parked truck.
Then it slides.
Three inches. Six. A foot. The concrete screams under its claws. The second gargoyle lunges and I catch it with my left arm, hooking my forearm under its chin, and now I'm pushing both of them, legs driving, the soles of my boots splitting on the cracked sidewalk. My back teeth grind together hard enough to taste enamel.
"FLYNN!"
The gargoyles' wings flare. Stone feathers spread wide, each one sharp enough to cut, and they slam against my forearms. Pain lances from wrist to elbow. Shallow cuts open on my skin, dark green blood welling in thin lines.
I don't let go.
I shove harder. Both gargoyles skid backward across the sidewalk, claws throwing sparks, and I drive them off the wildflower strip, off the curb, and into the street. The asphalt holds them better. Their claws grip. They push back and my boots slide an inch.
Two inches.
I dig in.
"Get OFF my street."
A horn. Sharp. The silver Audi has stopped thirty yards down the road. Valerius is leaning out the driver's window, his pale face arranged in an expression of practiced inconvenience.
"Flynn. Those are municipal property."
"They're damaging the sidewalk. Section 3, Subsection A. No resident or agent thereof shall cause degradation to communal infrastructure."
Silence. Even the gargoyles pause. Their stone heads tilt in unison, as if receiving a signal.
