LibriumArcana.Games

( Most of this is just me bumbling around while wanting to write something. I'll mark the parts that are actual logs. )

St. John's Cathedral loomed over the neighbourhood, atop the crest of the hill like a tireless guardian. A stretch of townhouses to the south, stretching down into a residential wasteland where every goddamn thing looked the same in Sherry's eyes. She trudged up the street as though tugging the weight of Atlas behind her.

Home for the misbegotten, sanctuary for the persecuted, house of the Lord God Almighty... she lifted her gaze--one eye blue, one eye brown--to the elaborate buttresses and stained glass windows, and as opposed to a message of unconditional love, she got a very different impression: Your kind don't belong here.

Since far back in history, the days of selling indulgences and widespread corruption among the clergy, such cathedrals had been lavishly erected. With little to no regard given to better alternatives of spending their money, of course. Sherry had always felt out of place in churches for this reason: the beauty that soothed others didn't do much other than alienate her. Like wandering through Harrod's with empty pockets and old shoes, disgusted by her poverty.

Admittedly, she'd attended services with her friends in earlier years. It was often a side-effect of sleeping at someone else's house on Saturday night. But that had been when she was ten or so; things were different now.

Odd, then, how she had the urge to attend this Saturday's confession.

Stepping through the door and lighting the small candle was a process, even, as she tried to adjust herself to her surroundings. Tried not to be dwarfed by the size and expense of it all. She was fifteen years old now, not a one of them spent in company that would befit a place like this.

The others in the great room paid her no mind, continuing their rituals regardless of the presence of someone who might overhear their whispers. As she approached the confessional booth, she wondered what sins those around me had murmured to the men behind the partitions. Father, I thought ill of someone I care about... I had relations with a woman who was not my wife... I was drunk at the time... And then she considered the gravity of a life lived in the company of these sins, to have to consider what should absolve their thoughts and actions.

She passed by the collection box; she had nothing to give.

Drawing the curtain of the booth closed, she sighed deeply, dropped to her knees. Dear God, have these walls ever heard from a soul as sick as mine?

"Father, bless me, for I'm about to sin," she said.

"How long has it been since your last confession?" the voice on the other side asked. Indeterminate age.

"I've never been," she whispered, "I'm not even Catholic... I just need..."

There was an awkward silence to end all before it.

"I understand," the priest--a vague shape in the darkness--said, "what sin are you contemplating, child?"

She squeezed her eyes shut as though they'd swollen, thought back to the stolen handgun in her dresser drawer. She'd swiped the pistol from her step-brother's friend one night, when he and his gangster friends had drank more than their fair share. The night they'd killed her dog.

"I want to kill a man," she said. "And his son. I want them to suffer. And I want to watch." She winced as though the words themselves would bring Heavenly retribution. No question of why from the priest, so she continued: "He... hurt my family. They killed my dog. An' they've done... other things..."

The pain in her voice was obvious; she gave up trying to hide it.

"He gives my mum heroin to keep her from leavin' him," she whimpered, hands clutched into fists at her sides. She sniffed.

"Will taking his life bring your family back?"

After a sick, wry laugh, she stated the obvious: "Of course it won't. It'll just... make me feel better."

"For how long?"

She'd never considered that. "I don't care."

"A year perhaps? Two?"

Sherry sighed. "Probably not even that."

In the darkness, the sound of a body shifting. Then the priest continued:

"So we'll say a year. Maybe less. You'll need to feel better again. What will it take next?"

"I... don't..." She exhaled again, this time until her lungs ached, and leaned against the partition with the weariness of a man who might never rise again. "I don't know. Maybe nothing? I may not even be alive then..." A pause. "He's an evil man. He's hurt so many people... Father, his death would be a favour to humanity..." And the more she defended herself, she stumbled. "He'll hurt other people..."

The priest didn't hesitate, even as she was coming apart: "Judgement doesn't belong to you, child," he said. "That belongs to God alone."

"I know," she sobbed, coming unhinged. "But I just want everything to be back... things weren't good before, not close, but I want my mum back... I want all traces of his life erased from mine!" She didn't just want to kill him; she wanted to kill his memory. Kill the very mention of his name. Her hands shook as she wiped her nose on her sleeve.

"Believe in miracles," the kindly voice responded. "They happen every day. No damage can't be undone."

She sniffled again, resting her forehead against the booth's wall. Her eyes stung. She said nothing.

"I can tell you to try and forgive him," the man said, "but even with the help of God, you may find that difficult. Someday, your heart may find forgiveness. Perhaps easier than you'd find forgiveness for yourself if you took a life."

"So," Sherry whispered, "you believe that miracles happen, and God causes them to happen, and prayers to be answered every day?"

"Of course," he said.

"Through ordinary people? At least some of the time?"

"I do, yes."

She cleared her throat. "If that's the case, then why not also the wrath of His judgement?"

From the other side of the booth, there was nothing. She knelt there for a few grueling moments. And he wouldn't say a thing, she knew, because she'd lost too goddamn much to not deserve the small bit of respite she'd achieve by putting a slug through Gary Tamerill's head.

For hours, she'd wandered the streets of Old Malton like they'd hold an answer to her internal struggle.

They yielded nothing.

So that night, she found hersellf home once again, but this time with hard resolve replacing her normal boredom. Her bedroom was dark, Lou Reed on the radio, and she was ready as she'd ever be. Gary and his son worked at a tanning mill downtown, and about half an hour before their shift was up, she rose and went to tend to her mother.

Olivia Zelhart had been a beautiful woman: born in Fez, a mixed-race beauty with the height and grace of a goddess. Now she was shriveled, barely a wraith, let alone a human being. When she rose, it was only to shoot up, and even then she was only on her feet for a short while before collapsing on the closest available piece of furniture, sometimes still with the tourniquet tied about her arm. This night, though, Sherry would be careful to keep her in the bedroom. From the half-collapsed grey couch in the living room, Sherry carried her mother to her bed. Olivia slumped against the headboard with a quiet mumble, worlds away.

Returning to the kitchen, Sherry put a kettle of tea on and waited, chest heavy with the knowledge that she could quite possibly be ending her own life.

"I made you somethin', Mum," she said, quietly slipping through the door and handing her mother a half-full mug, lest she spill it.

Olivia smiled, her eyes glossed over. A curtain Sherry didn't seem to be able to break through anymore. She sipped the hot tea, thanked her daughter. Tears welled in Sherry's eyes, and for a moment she stood there like an actor who'd just plum forgotten her lines. The mumbled 'thankya' was the first thing Olivia had said to her in over a week.

"M--m--" Sherry tried, but couldn't. Olivia looked to her with another glassy smile.

"Sher, you're so good to me... don't ever change..."

Father, bless me, Sherry thought, mind reeling. She almost reconisdered--what the hell was she planning to do? it was ludicrous!--but she reminded herself that these rare moments of coherence were what she was fighting for. She was going to make things right. She had to. So they mumbled back and forth, remembering the good times. What few there were.

And then she pulled a brush from a drawer on the nightstand, sat upon the side of the bed, and brushed her mother's hair.

Sherry glanced up, headed out of her mother's room as soon as they arrived. An hour after their shift ended, no doubt having stopped for a pint or ten on their way back. By the time she'd slipped into her room, hid the pistol in her hooded sweater's pocket, they were on the couch as usual. Cider and chips, watching footy on the shitty rabbit-eared television. Moving like a phantom in the baggy sweatshirt, Sherry approached them in the living room.

Gary grinned upon seeing her, waving.

"Why hello there!" He appraised her like one would a car. "That just won't do. Why don't you put on somethin' that you fill out better, darling? At least make yourself easy on our eyes, eh?"

Her stare was unblinking. She mouthed a word.

"Sherry?" he asked, more curious than concerned.

"Fuck off," she snarled, then clarified: "I said no."

Tamerill leapt to his feet, marching toward her with a glower. "What did I tell you about back talking?" he snapped. "Are you really so slow that we have to teach you every goddamn thing twice?"

His hand connected with her jaw, and she took the blow with a blank expression, her gaze pinning his down.

"You're a wicked man," she said, then drew the gun. Before he could refute her claim, the living room was littered with the contents of his skull.

When Sherry looked to his son, who had frozen in horror upon the couch with a twitch in his jaw at how simply awful the day had gone, she looked as though something vital had been robbed from her. Like she was haunted.

"You killed Dusty," she whispered, referring to the golden retriever he and his friends had loved to mess with when visiting. She took one step forward and fired again, catching him between the eyes.

Her backpack rested beside the door, and she lifted it, shoving the gun down into the smallest pocket. Before leaving, she checked in on her mother, who slept peacefully.

I'll help you, she thought, once I figure out how.

And she was gone before the neighbours had finished dialing the police.

( Begin log! )

Having made sure to cover her own tracks and that the murders couldn't be blamed on her mother, Sherry was at a loss. She had no plan, nowhere to sleep, and had begun this journey with less than twelve quid to her name anyway. But what was done had been done and she'd lived with it, skirting around one of Old Town's most profitable business districts in the wee hours, skirt hiked up and boots laced high. When someone requested her 'company', she'd insist on the cuffs and blindfold, and before the dumb fucks could realize it, they were in a hotel in their underwear without a goddamn clue. However, she knew she couldn't continue this because sooner or later she'd fuck up, so for the present time, she'd stuck to filching wallets here and there. Her prints weren't on file, so no worries there.

But it had snowed heavily the last few days, and she'd barely survived in the rackety plywood shelter she'd constructed. Something had to change or she was going to freeze to death, end of story.

The hangover was hammering on his skull, making every step a thudding bit of misery. The reflected light from the snow wasn't helping a bit, either. Ron made his way down the street, the perfect picture of morning-after regret. He slid between the pedestrians, just wanting to get back to his loft and puke the afternoon away.
But for now, she was without other options.

So she wandered through the crowd, bulky coat's collar drawn up around her chin, the rest of her face hidden behind a thick curtain of dark brown. Her natural hair colour, no less.

As though on reflex, her foot snapped to the side, caught the ankle of the woman next to her. The lady's body fell against Sherry's, shoving her into Ron with a bit of a shocked cry. And it all looked like an accident. Deft fingers ghosted through his pockets in a split second, and she was apologising, looking to the woman who'd fallen and snarling for her to watch it next time, bitch.

"Ah fuck," he groaned. "Whatever..." he said. The girl started the scamper away, but something... he launched after her, adrenaline burning away the haze of the hangover. "Get back here!" he snarled.

But she was quick. Ducking and weaving between the pedestrians, who paid them no mind.

He didn't duck and weave, he blasted straight through. People turned at the commotion and parted. She heard a name ripple through the crowd. Obviously, people around this neighborhood knew him. 'Ron'.

She ducked through the remnants of a fence, leaping into an alley and skidding in a sloshy puddle of half-water, half-snow. She wasn't dressed for the winter, this much was obvious, but for the moment not being burdened was working to her advantage.

He had the advantage of height and speed on her, and hangover aside, he was well-rested and -fed. He vaulted the fence and dived, one hand getting hold of her ankle, the other tugging on her calf.

"Aa--" she began, but was cut off with a whimper as she hit the snowy ground, wind knocked from her. While normally toned as a swimmer and fairly muscular, since she'd been on the dodge, her body had pretty much been forced into submission, becoming sticklike. Her face had gone likewise, eye sockets sunken and cheeks too defined. Her skin had even lost most of its natural tint, a side-effect of her mixed heritage. So all in all, she was thin and pale and she simply couldn't take the hit.

He wasn't about to let up, though. Scrambling up, he grabbed the back of her shirt and yanked her to her feet, before slamming her into the chainlink fence and pinning her against it. For a long moment he held her pinned there, huffing cloudy mists of breath into her ear. "Not bad..." he said. "Almost got away with it. But you looked down at your hand. Major tell..."

She was still trying to regain her breath. "Just--take it..." she wheezed, light-headed and disoriented. It was a miracle she realized who he was at that point.

"My neighborhood, little one," he said. "People around here expect me to keep things under control. Means I can't just let you walk away." He turned her around suddenly, leaning in to pin her with his hip so she couldn't go for the most obvious escape, and looked at her, blue eyes staring at her odd mismatched eyes. He studied her for a moment. "How old are you?" he asked.

'What does it matter to you?' she would have spat, had she the mental prowess at the moment. But she was still reeling from the fall, and she could only mumble the answer as though being asked by a curious stranger. "...fourteen."

"C'mon," he said, grabbing her collar and tugging her along. "You're gonna freeze to death out here." He wrapped his hand in the fabric in such a fashion that it would take some major violence to dislodge his grip.

She struggled, but it was brief as she realized she wasn't going anywhere. Then again... She unzipped the coat and started scrambling off.

He snapped his other hand around, grabbing her wrist as she tried to scramble away, and yanked her back, slugging her hard in the stomach. "Enough of this shit," he snarled. "I'm not gonna hurt you unless you try to run, and I'm not gonna fuck you." He grabbed a handful of hair and yanked her head up. "Now fuckin' behave."

She refused to meet his eyes, certain he was lying about one or the other. Either that or he was just going to turn her in. And that meant there was a chance she'd been brought up as a suspect in the murders, which meant someone would undoubtedly come asking questions... She stood there in utter silence, staring at her feet.

He grabbed her coat and tossed it at her. "Put it on and come on. When was the last time you had anything to eat?"

She zipped it up, shoving her hands into the pockets. "... Few days," she mumbled.

"Well come on. I have a fucking hangover and I'm in no mood for shit." He seized her wrist and started walking back out toward the street.

She followed, if a bit grudgingly, and kept her eyes on the snowy sidewalk. Her cheeks burned pink with the cold and shame.

He dragged her on for a couple more blocks. She could hear people murmuring and commenting, but nobody said anything. He entered an apartment complex and towed her up the stairs to a dingy place. He unlocked the lock and deadbolt, then opened the door and shoved her inside. First impression? It didn't smell too good. Old dishes in the sink, old trash, and in serious need of some housekeeping help. He flipped on the light, and the slovenly disorder matched the odor. He piled in after her, closed and started locking the various locks and chains on the door. "Go see what's in the fridge," he ordered. "Anything that's not spoiled, help yourself." He leaned against the door and pulled out a pack of cigarettes, moaning softly. "Fucking head's fit to explode..."

"'M not hungry," she said timidly, shying back away from him and into the centre of the room, not sure where she was intent on going. "Can't eat. 'M sick."

"If you're gonna get sick, the bathroom's that way. Hurry up and get it over with, so I can toss, myself." He lit a cigarette with shaky fingers.

"I'll... Let you know," she said, backing up against the back of the couch, where it met the wall and formed a corner. She slid down and drew her knees to her chest, resting her chin in the valley between them. It was warm inside, and undoubtedly her exposure to either the weather or the garbage was what had caused her sickness, but she wasn't in a position to do much about it.

"Give me my wallet," he said after a moment, leaning forward and holding out his hand.

She tossed it to him after digging in her pocket for a moment. Then, after a few seconds of consideration, also threw out the one from the woman she'd kicked.

He pocketed them both. "Okay," he said. "Now, you freelance on my turf again, I break both your knees and I put a nasty scar on that pretty face." He plopped down on the couch and groaned. "Now, go on if you want, or get something to eat if you want."

"Can I just... Sleep for a while?" she asked, still keeping her chin down, her voice low.

He lifted himself off the couch, then groped around and found a ratty blanket and tossed it onto her lap. "Go right ahead."

And she hated to bother him, but...

"... Have any aspirin or anythin'?" Accent on the 'anything.'

"Lemme go look," he said, ambling toward the bathroom. There were rattling bottle sounds, before he headed back in, downing some Tums before offering her a bottle of acetaminophen and the bottle of Tums. "Want some water?"

She nodded, pondering asking him whether or not he could warm it up. But then she decided she'd overstayed her welcome when it came to that anyway and just shut up. After all, for whatever reason he was doing this, chances are it was going to cost her in the end, so she was going to be certain to keep from overindulging.

He rattled around in the kitchen, producing a reasonably clean glass, and poured water from the tap, then brought it back, before returning to the bathroom. A few seconds later came loud retching sounds from that vicinity.

She winced a bit, betting on the fact that he not only had far too much to drink but also hadn't slept a great deal either. But she wasn't going to intrude on those manners. She simply drank the water, downed the pills with a bit of a gag--not one to be used to taking them, so of course when the occasion arose it was a nasty thing.

And then Sherry leaned her head against the wall, stared at the ceiling. But she couldn't sit still. She was far too used to living on the streets, and so resting--with or without her eyes closed--meant death.

So as opposed to falling asleep, when he returned from the bathroom he'd find that she'd cleaned the place up top to bottom: trash deposited in bags, rugs shaken, stains scrubbed out.

And there she was, back where she'd originally nestled herself between the couch and the wall.

He'd wandered from the bathroom to his bedroom to flop down for a while. When he returned, he looked around in amazement. "The hell did you do to my place?" he asked.

"Can't sleep," was the only thing she had to say on the subject. And to her, it was an explanation enough. She seemed to be breathing easier, but her manner was no less aloof than it had been.

He looked around at the unfamiliar environment. "Okay. Hasn't been like this since I moved in." He shook his head, jaws working on a piece of gum. "You get anything to eat?"

"Don't think I could keep it down," she said in that odd, subdued manner. Like there was a lion behind the words that she was trying to keep suffocated for a damn good reason.

And, with a great deal of swallowed pride: "... Got in a bit of a row a few days back. Throat and gut haven't been too hot since."

He nodded. "Runaway?"

She shrugged. "Everyone's runnin' from something."

"You're not bad," he said. "Hadn't been for the look, I would've missed it, totally."

"The best way to learn is through necessity, I guess."

"I need a runner, pass along numbers results. Hard work, pay's for shit, but I can get you a place to put up, and it's a start. Rip me off, and I break your legs."

"Don't know if I can," she said honestly. And after a long pause: "My family's looking for me. But not in the good way."

"Rip off the piggy bank?" he inquired jokingly.

She looked, for all the lack of a better term, wounded. Shook her head.

He sobered up. "What?" he asked.

"I..." what did she have to lose?

"I killed my mum's husband... and then I killed my brother..."

He whistled, not answering right away. Finally, he looked over at her. "They have it coming?"

She nodded. "They were... bad, bad people." Squeezing her eyes closed. "They hurt both of us. Mum and I. So I made sure the evidence wouldn't point at her... but it's been a while, so they've probably figured it out."

He nodded. "Okay then. Running's a good job for you, then. Get you cleaned up a bit, color up your hair. You been run in before? The Bobbies have your prints on file?"

She shook her head. "'M just a kid... was a stupid thing to do. But--" they were killing her "--I didn't have much of a choice."

"Hey," he said. "Shh..." he reached over, tugging on her arm and pulling her over to him. "If they was bastards, they had it coming."

She leaned on him, her weight insubstantial.

"They got her hooked on something... wrecked everything."

As opposed to the calamity one would expect from the voice of someone so young, she spoked in a soft, detached tone.

"Yeah," he said, just affirming that he was listening. "Go on."

She shrugged. "I kept trying to think of some other way... but I can't think of anything else that would've worked. And his kid was a bastard," she seethed, "a real bastard..."

"So you're okay with what you've done," he asked.

She shook her head. "No regrets other than it had to be done."

"Good then," he said. "My name's Ron, by the way. Ron Engler."

She paused for what seemed like hours, thinking of an alias, then finally just decided the truth would work because she didn't have anything else to offer and he didn't have anything to gain from it.

"Sherry Zelhart."

It was odd to hear her name again after so many months.

"Well," he said. "Sorry about punching you about earlier. Hangover and all."

She shrugged. "I've had worse."

Then to prove a point, she lifted the hem of her sweater, showing off the pale skin mottled with hideous black and blue. Hard, nasty, but not too recent.

"Yeah, well, it's not what I normally do," he said.

Another shrug. Dismissive. By that point, she honestly didn't give a shit about much anymore.

"So, you never said if you wanted the job or not."

She said nothing, just stared at the floor. She seemed to have slipped into a sort of funk after mentioning the events that had brought her there.

He pulled her shirt back down and tugged her close again, resting his chin on her head without a word.

And the minutes ticked away, either both of them glad to not have to deal with anything or perhaps just lacking the balls to talk business and get it over with. Finally, she said: "Why?"

"Why what?" he asked. "Why the job? You're a smooth touch."

"Doesn't mean you had to care enough to ask my story," she said. In other words: I assumed you were an asshole just like everyone else.

He shrugged. "So I'm not a total bastard 365 a year. Don't get sassy. Do you want the job?"

"Sure," she said noncommittally. But it wasn't as though she had another alternative. Although she was sure her mother was worried, there would no doubt be people watching the place... and there wasn't exactly a way for her to get there, anyhow. With more snow on the way, at least.

"Okay," he said. "Couch is yours, for the time being. No inviting anybody over without asking me, no snooping around in my stuff..." he paused, realizing that was a rather ridiculous stance considering how she'd cleaned the place. "My bedroom, anyway. Steal anything, and I'll break your legs."

"I don't have anyone to invite," she said with a sad laugh. But she listened to him lay down the law anyway, even if it was just because hearing another voice actually speaking with hers was bizarre but comforting.

He shrugged. "That'll change. You'll get to know my people. When you get some meat on your bones, you might even be one of them."

"What..." and she wasn't even sure what she was going to ask. What did he want in return? So she shut up, and instead asked if he had a pair of scissors.

He looked around. "Somewhere around here. You cleaned the place up, dunno where anything is."

"True," she said with a smirk. And wandered toward the kitchen. When she returned a few moments later, the mop of hair had been removed, bangs cut in a tidy A-line from her face. She looked older, taller.

"Good," he said. "We'll get you some color for the hair, nobody'll recognize you. Red? Blond?"

"Better go with the last," she said. "It's been red before. Black, too."

"Okay, I'll pick you up a bottle of bleach in the evening," he said.

"Use her money," she said quietly, of the other wallet she'd taken, "not yours."

"No, she gets her wallet back," he said. "Told you, this is my neighborhood. We don't make our money stealing from the locals here, little one."

"Then take mine," she said, pulling a few crumpled notes from her pocket and tossing them over to him. Pocket change, but it was all she'd had for weeks now.

He accepted the money. "Okay," he said, stuffing it into his pocket. "Now, are you hungry yet?"

"Guess it doesn't hurt to try," she said without much enthusiasm.

"Good," he said. "You're nothin' but skin and bones. Let's get some food into you." He got up and opened the fridge, looking inside.

The fridge was empty. Almost empty. There was a jar of olives three days from expiration, sitting mockingly in the center of the top rack. He stared at it for a long moment. "Pizza sound good?"

"Sure," she said. "We can put those miserable olives on it."

"There was nothing good in there?"

She shook her head. "Ain't like you'd touched it in days."

"Hunh," he said with a shrug. "Okay..." he snagged the phone and started dialing from memory. "What toppings?"

She shrugged. "Meat."

He chuckled. "Meat, right..." He proceeded to order a deluxe, with sausage, bacon, and pepperoni. Hanging up, he opened the pantry and rummaged around, producing a bottle of cheap wine. Unscrewing the cap, he poured himself a glass. "Wine?" he asked.

She nodded, then laughed a little. Quite obviously not at something he'd done, but rather at her own thoughts.

He poured hers into a plastic convenience store cup and passed it over, then sat on the edge of the couch.

"Want to share?" he asked.

She just shook her head with a wry smile, sipped the drink with a relaxed sigh. "Lied about my age," she admitted. "Figured you wouldn't fuck me if my age creeped you out. 'S worked before."

"I don't have to club women and drag them off the streets to get 'em into my bed," he said, taking a drink. "No strings there, don't sweat it."

"Hey, some assholes do," she said without any bitterness on his part. "I pegged you for a bastard and I was wrong. Or at least wrong about what kind of bastard."

He shrugged. "Smart to be careful. Safer that way."

"Safe," she laughed, "right." Like there was any semblance thereof living on the streets of Malton's older suburbs. They'd fallen into decay long before she'd even been born.

"Safer," he said. "Safer than walking around naked with a sign that says 'fuck me!', right?"

"Nah, 'cause then they'd think I had the HIV," she said with a smirk. Sherry yawned and took another long sip of the wine, unused to the feeling of her hair at its current length. Experimentally, she tossed her bangs behind her ears a few times.

He chuckled at that. "Maybe so. It's not a bad trick," he continued. "'Course, there are those who'd want it even more. So how old are you really, then?"

"Good question," she said cryptically, leaning against him with a soft sigh.

"Don't know or don't want to answer?" he asked.

"Little bit of both," she responded. "I could say, 'somewhere between sixteen and seventeen' or just stay quiet and it achieves 'bout the same result." She took another drink, shook her head. "Gather ye rosebuds while ye may, I s'pose."

He shrugged. "Same difference."

"Pretty much. How 'bout you?" she asked, cracking her knuckles and watching him with that creepy, off-balance gaze. The difference in pigment in her eyes made it almost appear that she was looking in two different directions. Unnerving. "Or is it just Prince Charming for now?"

He snorted at that. "Twenty."

"An' you got the documentation to back that up, sonny jim?" she asked with a grin.

He chuckled. "Sure I do. Well, it's on record somewhere."

"So I take it there won't be a Missus Ron and kidlets coming home to find me here, eh?"

He shook his head. "Nope." He lit a cigarette. "I'm not the settling type."

"Means there's more you've gotta protect," she said, knowing full well what he meant.

He nodded. "Exactly."

"Well don't you worry that pretty little head over me, then," she said with a smile. "I can take care of myself. An' your sick ass too if'n the need arises."

There was a knock at the door. He patted her head, then pulled a knife from his pocket before he went to answer it.

She shrank back a bit, her own hand hovering over her back pocket. Guarding some unseen weapon, no doubt. Something she'd been reluctant to use on him.

He glanced out, then pocketed the knife and opened the door, producing some currency to pay for the pizza and soda. He turned and plopped it on the coffee table, now remarkably free of obstructions and old pizza boxes, obviously his prime source of sustenance.

Sherry hung back automatically. Relying on instinct: let the lion have his meal, she'd rely on scraps as usual. Food had been scarce when she'd grown up, and she'd learnt the best way to keep from having to fight was to simply let them have their way.

He uncapped the bottle of soda and took a long drink, then passed it over to her, before grabbing a slice. He took a bite, then looked over at her. "What? Get a piece already."

She stared as though he'd suddenly grown an extra arm from the middle of his forehead. "O...kay," she said meekly, whatever intimacy of their conversation before having vanished. Lightly walking up to the coffee table, she grabbed a slice and a napkin, eating neatly for the first few bites before going absolutely crazy.

"Knew you were hungry," he said, munching contentedly on his piece.

She nodded, didn't object. He'd been right, end of story. Two, three more pieces before she finally took a sip of the soda, sitting still for a moment before letting out a decidedly un-ladylike belch. God damn, she hadn't eaten like that in months.

He smiled as he took another piece. At the rate she was going, she'd out-eat him. He wondered where it was going. Not like she had a lot of room in that skinny frame.

Indeed, she was fairly tiny. The height that would come later in her years had yet to manifest; she stood barely to his shoulder. But starvation could work wonders on an appetite. She finished her fifth piece and announced that he could have the rest.

"Sure you don't want more?" he asked. "Could order another one."


She did, but she wasn't gonna push it. She'd learned better in her years, and even though she trusted him, she might get sick if she continued anyway. "Nah," she said, "I'm good."

He shrugged and got another piece. "Okay. So, you grow up here in town?"

"Guess so," she said noncommittally. "If you can call it growin' up." And with that she shrugged and let loose a messive yawn of relaxation.

"Tired?" he inquired. "You didn't sleep yet."

"Nah," she said. "Just...relaxin'." Which was something she wasn't used to in the slightest. So given the rare opportunity, might as well.

He tugged the blanket over her. "Get some sleep. You're exhausted."

"I'd rather stay up," she said quietly. "Good to stay up when it's quiet 'cause most of the time it's not." Her logic wouldn't make sense to most, but to someone who'd lived her life it made sense. She could sleep through an earthquake, so quiet was best appreciated when awake.

"Your call," he said agreeably, sticking his feet on the coffee table and lighting a cigarette.

She didn't say much, just sitting against his shoulder and allowing herself the occasional taste of the cola and wine. "S'what about you?" she asked. "Now you know my story."

He shrugged. "Lived here all along. Got kicked out of the house when I was fifteen, started doing my own thing. Worked my way up quick."

"Why?" she asked. "Dija get kicked out, that is," she corrected.

"Family trouble," he said. "Didn't get on well with the old man. Took a wrench to his head, last time."

"I know the feeling," she said quietly, finishing her glass of wine and taking a few moments to collect herself. Tough shit to talk about. Especially when you hadn't had a sit-down with anyone for a good three or four months.

"My father ran off 'fore I was even born," she confessed.

"Fucking loser," he said.

"Not as bad as the guys she went with after," she said, mellow and calculated.

He nodded. "Stupid bint."

She sighed. "I tried to help her," Sherry admitted without much gusto. "Or at least tried t'get 'em to stop..."

He shrugged at that. "She chose to get into that. Y'don't end up with a parade of losers without trying."

"I meant stop with me," she admitted.

He nodded. Nothing to be done for it. "Well, you're away now."

"Yup," she said. "Aint nothing we can do about it..."

"You go on forward and don't look back," he counseled.

She laughed. "Look back? Hell, I don't even look forward."

"Okay, so move on then," he said. "You'll start in the morning. It's simple work, but if somebody comes at you, you have to be quick."

"You shouldn't have beat me," she said a bit sourly. "I'm usually faster."

He shrugged. "You hadn't eaten in fuck knows how long, hadn't had any good sleep."

"Still," she said with a grunt of self-disapproval. Everything was a test to the girl. Most noticeably those tests of the internal variety.

He shrugged. "Can't win every time."

After a few moments of contemplating that, she relented. "Yeah." Although thinking about it, that wasn't how she lived her life.
"So," he said, somewhat at a loss for topics. "Why did you clean up the place?" he said finally. "Worried about owing me?"

She shrugged. "Do you have a rationalisation for everything you do?" A pause. "It just felt like the right thing to do." Because I felt sorry for you.

Because it reminded her of home.

He shrugged. "Just odd," he said. "Thanks, though."

She paused. "You're a good guy, Ron," she said quietly. "And... It just made me kinda sad to see your place lookin' like that."

He shrugged. "It's comfortable. I don't worry about shit like that. I'll be living in a new place in another month or two anyway."

"Yeah?" she asked, the unspoken question: if somehow I'm still around... Would you bring me with you? And in regards to the previous: "People like you an' me, we gotta stick together. You can take care of yourself, I'm sure, but..." She sighed. "It's a loveless, thankless existence."
Wise words from a young mouth.

He crossed his arms, looking at her somewhat quizzically, before shaking his head. "You're alright," he said with a grin. "I think we're gonna get along fine."

She nodded, pouring herself another hefty glass of wine and then taking a sip of the bottle itself before handing it back to him. "I'm glad you think so," she said quietly. "But keep in mind: I'm on my own for a reason, okay? If I disappear one day..."

"Same here," he said, taking the bottle. "I don't plan to do this shit forever."

"That's not what I meant," she said. But she didn't feel like clarifying.
"I know," he said. "We all have our reasons."

"Well I don't want anyone to be able to connect us," she said. "You'd get in trouble... And it wouldn't be for the right reasons." She coughed a bit, threw back the last half of her glass with a pained look. "Already done enough damage on my behalf, far as I can tell."

"Don't worry about it. I've got the locals covered, including the Bobbies."

"What the hell are you in on?" she said with a raised eyebrow. "Irish mob? Eastenders?"

"Tied to 'em," he said. "We're something of a junior varsity for the Eastenders."

"Huh," she said, as though that was any appropriate response. A sound of distaste.

He shrugged. "It's a bastard world."

"Eastenders... Not good people," she said quietly.

"Same could be said for a double-murderer," he shot back. "If you don't know the whole story."

"Guy I killed was an Eastender," she said. "Brad Tamerill." A scrunch of her nose. "Wanted to kill all his friends, too. "I had a dog back when it was just mum and I, and... Brad brought three guys over once. They beat her, put out cigarettes on her. I don't think they even cared that she died halfway through, 'cause they kept playin' with the body."

"Tamerill?" he said, raising an eyebrow. "He was a lot of talk, but he wasn't fully in. If you hadn't done it, somebody else would've."

"For different reasons," she spat, seeming to puff up like a cornered housecat.

He nodded. "He was causing problems. Indiscreet, you see."

"His dad got my mum hooked on... That shit she puts in her arms," she grumbled. "She isn't the same. He killed her brain."

He nodded. An odd, clinical detachment seemed to have overcome him, at the mention of Tamerill. "Well, that's done then..." he said softly.

"Eh?" she asked, shifting and laying against his chest so as to make eye contact. She could hear the thudding of his heart.

"Wasn't going to be just anyone who was going to take him down," he said with a little smile. "That was supposed to be my job. Small world, hey?"

"Then you owed me this," she said with a jokingly smug grin.
"Don't get sassy," he said, tapping her nose.

She climbed into his lap. "I thought you men-folk liked sassy!"

"Okay, that we do," he agreed. "But not when you're working for me," he pointed out.

"Well if this flat is a sass-free work zone then this couch is the break room," she declared, slapping the cushion with a mock-serious Dan Rather face. Sherry then proceeded to play with her boss's hair, announcing: "You'd be right cute if you grew out your bangs."

He leaned close to her, looking into her eyes. "You wouldn't be flirtin' with me, now would you?"

She stared back, odd eyes gleaming as she grinned. Predatory. That a dare? "Is my flirting under your jurisdiction too, then?"

"Just that there's two places in here," he said. "Bed, for the girl I'm with, and couch, for the girl that's working for me. Which one do you want?"

She didn't say anything for a long moment, a strange look crossing over her. She trailed her gaze down to his chest, then looked up after a few moments. "You'd... Want me?" as though it were the most unlikely thing.

"On account of liking pretty girls, sure," he said, confused.

"Most pretty girls don't kill people," she pointed out.

He shrugged. "You got the one I was supposed to kill," he said.

"And his father," she said.

"Like father, like son. No loss to the world."

She leaned against him, and thus began the most tentative of kisses. "How come you have to be the only one that understands?"

"That's... I don't know," he said.

"That makes two of us," she replied a bit glumly.

"So, is this what you want?" he asked.

She didn't know what she wanted. She'd never known what she wanted. And even if she did know what she wanted, she'd never been in a position where it had been anywhere near possible.

"I..."

She paused, pulled back.

"Get some sleep, think it over. I'll still be here in the morning," he said.

She smiled. "Thanks."

He shrugged. "Don't worry about it."

"So what about you?" she mirrored the question from earlier. "What do you want?"

"Something. I'm not sure what," he said. "To get the hell out of here, I think."

"Malton?" she asked.

He nodded. "Sooner or later, I'm leaving and never coming back."

She rested against him, unabashedly taking a long breath, inhaling the scent of his hair and skin. And her mind would now associate that scent with words like 'defend' and 'protect.' Unsure of what to respond for a while, she finally spoke up: "... Take me with you?"

"Sure," he said. "Don't know where I'm going yet, but you probably don't care any more than I do."

"Aint that the truth," she said, voice a bit somber. "Malton's a black hole. It keeps tryin' to make you stay, no matter how hard you try to fight it. Like it's got a mind of its own."

He shook his head. "A town's just a town. People trap themselves."

She considered that. "I dunno," she said after a moment, "there's some freaky shit that goes down here."

He shook his head again, irritably. "I've heard people whining all my fucking life. So they got dealt a bad hand, bitch bitch bitch. Do they try to do a fucking thing about it? No, just sit and whine. There's no big secret to things, just figure out how the system works, and beat it."

"'S why I just lived off the grid," Sherry said. "Even when I was at home." And she paused, then shifted against him. "The day I killed them I went to confession for the first time. Who the fuck knew why. An' while I was in there, it was like having a new perspective. Cathedrals fucking dwarf you."

"You tell the padre what you did?" he asked, shifting around with a concerned look.

Shaking her head: "I hadn't done it yet. But even though I hadn't, I remember thinkin': Dear God, have these walls ever heard from a sicker soul than mine?"

"Oh, I'm sure they have," he said. "There are a lot sicker fucks in this world than you, girl."

She managed a smile that, under different circumstances, might be dazzling. "Most sick fucks don't get bizarre urges to go to church, though,"

"Might be surprised," he said.

"Who knows?" she asked with a hapless shrug. And then, out of nowhere: "I've been doin' some thinking... And..." She kissed him, gently sliding her tongue across his lower lip. "If there's still a spot on that bed, I'd like it."

He wrapped his arms around her. "Let's go see, then..."

"Okay," she whispered, resigning to the fact that if she didn't trust him now, she'd probably never be able to.

He didn't wait for her to move, hefting her up in his arms. It wasn't like she was a great load, after all.

She laughed as he lifted her, sliding an arm around his shoulders as her other rested across her stomach. It felt good, laughing. Before then, she'd only been laughing at grossly inappropriate moments because she had to keep herself from going crazy.

Ron was drunk. Very very drunk. He snored heavily as he lay in an ambling heap on the bed. Long day at the office, as it were.

Sherry sat on the mattress next to him, smiling. Amused at his sleeping antics? Sure. Just glad to still be there? Even more so. She lightly flitted her fingers through his hair, noting the twitches in his nose and cheeks the movements produced. Not caring whether or not he was awake, she laid down, her body parallel to his, and murmured: "Take it easy... Don't wear yourself out, y'hear?"

The movement and words roused him some. He mumbled something affectionate and casually tossed his hand her way, where it plopped on her arm and then slid off.

She didn't say it often because of the stigma the words carried, but as she drifted off, Sherry felt justified. "... Love you," she whispered into his ear, tugging him against her chest.

"Mmmbrramb," he responded articulately. There was a rattle from the front door.

Instantly she was bolt-upright, despite the pub antics of earlier. He kept the gun at the bedside table... She didn't even know what the damn sound was and she was in her goddamned underwear but she didn't care, vaulting over him and onto the carpet, drawing the .45 with hardly a sound.

The motion roused him some. "Huh?" he said, rubbing his ear where her foot had clipped his head. "'Sup?"

"Shh," she hissed, hand covering her mouth. In the darkness, he could see the sheen of gunmetal.

Which had a very sobering effect. He shut up, sliding up slightly. The door suddenly slammed open. Rushing footsteps advanced toward them.

With speed and agility that she'd gained only through rest and returned muscle mass, Sherry dove toward the bedroom door, back straight against the wall. As the door opened, she'd be there, waiting.

And open it did. Ron rolled off the bed as the shotgun spat fire, a mass of pellets slamming into the place he'd been sitting just a second before...

Like a mongoose, Sherry struck. A vicious kick to the gunman's knees--no doubt, she was certain she heard one break--to bend them backward, then shoved him down the hallway with nothing more than bare feet.

There was a second gunman, who raised his pistol, lining up on her as she came through the doorway...

Shit! she hadn't been anticipating that. As she jumped over the body of the first gunman, she stomped on his neck with enough force to (hopefully) keep him down. She rolled forward, grabbing the shirt of the second man and yanking him forward, firing two quick shots into his face. He got off a single shot, which hit nothing. Gore from his head splattered the two of them, and as he released his pistol in the final moments, Sherry let out a blood-curdling scream as the hot muzzle contacted her skin.

Ron was already moving. He lifted the shotgun from the second gunman and put a round into his head. In for a murder, might as well be in for two. "Get dressed," he said. "'N go. C'mon." He grabbed his jeans.

She scrambled back into the bedroom, yanking on a pair of pants and a sweater to cover the mess she was covered in. The second man's gun was confiscated as well, and she launched herself toward the living room. They'd have better luck through the window; his apartment was on the first floor.

He snagged the necklace off one of the attackers, then tossed it away. It was a tartan pattern, green and gold. Shaking his head, he tugged his shirt on, then tossed her the keys. "You drive."

She caught them and yanked the window open, pulling herself through and landing with a gasp as the freezing night caught her off-guard. And then she was charging toward the car, bare feet numbed by the snow.

He followed along, shaking his head as he piled into the passenger seat. "Riverfront," he said. "Down by the old Marquis factory."

A sharp nod; she knew the way. Their tires skidded as she got them out of the carpark by the sheer grace of God alone. But once they were out, she was careful to conform to the speed and safety limits. Wouldn't do them any good at all otherwise.

"Well," he said after a long moment. "Not bad."

Sherry wasn't sure what he meant for a moment, chest heaving as she forced breath to her lungs. "Huh?"

"Cold drop," he said, still somewhat hazy from the booze. "Shoulda worked. Woulda worked if you hadn't been around."

"You'd do the same," she said, reaching across to the passenger's side and grabbing his hand. She needed an anchor to reality at the moment. They reached the riverfront a few blocks later.

"'Cept I was too fuckin' drunk," he mumbled.

She quieted him with a comforting, "shhh," and then asked where would be the best location to deposit the car.

"S'where we're goin'," he said. "Ditch the car there, walk it to Chatley's auto shop, pick up some new wheels. Get a place to lay low while the heat blows over. They won't care much for a couple of Nighty shooters getting it in the neck, but shooting always gets the newsies attention."

She nodded. After parking the car, she gave it a quick and cursory rubdown for their prints and then staggered out of the car, quietly closing the door. "Which way?" she whispered.

He grabbed her arm and towed her along. "This way," he said. "Stupid, stupid bastards," he muttered.

She plowed through the snow beside him, following. His muttering, she didn't understand. But what she did know was what they were both alive. That was all she cared about.

He hit an auto shop and held the buzzer down. After a minute, an older man looked out the window, then unlatched the door. "Ron," he said, gesturing them inside. "What'd you do now?"

By that point Sherry wasn't sure if her goddamn feet were even there. She was freezing, and no doubt he was as well. But she retained her coherence at least. "Safe?" she asked Ron, breathless.

"Not yet," he said. "Jerry, I need this car cleaned and vanished. I need new wheels, and a hole to hide in."

Jerry shook his head. "I don't want to know, then. Keys?" Ron nodded for Sherry to give him the keys.

She handed them over without question. If Ron trusted him, she'd be fine. She'd already placed her life in his hands and now, apparently, vice versa.

"You know the way to the basement," Jerry said, gesturing as he grabbed his coat. Ron grabbed her hand and guided her to the door, opening it up and trotting down the stairs.

She followed, stumbling a bit at the change in texture, then followed him to the basement with a nod to the man behind her.

The basement was set up as a guest bedroom... or hideout. Ron flopped on the couch. "Fuck..." he muttered. "Fuck fuck fuck..."

She knelt on the thin carpet beside the bed, putting a hand on his chest. "It's okay," she said quietly.

He shook his head. "We're alive, s'bout it."

"That's all that matters to me," she said with a sigh. "I aint ever had anyone to protect that I've succeeded with before..." She laid her chin on his chest. "I was terrified."

He rested his hand on the back of her head. "You did fine. Where'd you learn to handle guns?"

"Taught myself," she said with no other explanation.

"How?" he pressed.

"Had to," she said. "Livin' at my house was just like livin' on the streets."

He nodded. "Oh yeah." She lived with criminals. Simple enough.

She let out a sigh to relieve the tension in her chest, and when she rested against the couch she winced.

He noticed the wince. "Somethin' wrong?" he asked.

"Burn," she said through gritted teeth, having forgotten.

"Lemme see," he said, sitting up.

She did as instructed, pulling the sweater off and revealing the blood-coated nastiness that their intruder had showered her with. Peeling the thin camisole up and over her head, she revealed a dark, blistered powder burn just below the curve of her right breast. Like there was a goddamn thing they could do with it.

"Could be worse," he said, looking at it. "Could be a bullet hole."

She nodded wordlessly, poking experimentally at one of the blisters.

"Hey, don't do that. You'll break it," he said, grabbing her hand.

She looked up to him. "Sorry," was the automatic response. "Didn't know."

"Bad to break blisters," he informed her seriously. Then he suddenly grabbed her for a kiss. "That was too fucking close," he said.

She was a bit surprised by that, but eased against him anyway, arms over his shoulders as she gingerly climbed up onto the couch atop him. "I'll do better next time," she promised.

He shook his head. "You did fine, girl, you did fine."

She paused. "No one's ever told me that before."

"Damn shame," he said, squeezing her hand.

"What were your parents like?" she asked quietly. "Other than the fighting?"

"Not there, mostly," he said. "Mum worked two jobs, da drank up the money."

She nuzzled against his cheek. "We'll be better than that," she promised.

He blinked. "Thinkin' of the future now? Good."

"I'll help you get out of here," she whispered. "I promise." And that wasn't something she did lightly. A quick kiss.

He touched her cheek. "Some day, you're going to be faster than me," he said.

"But I won't leave you," she assured him.

"Wouldn't want to hold you back," he said.

She met his eyes, and it was evident that what he'd said had left her touched. She grabbed his hands and held them tightly. "I'd rather be happy, be with you than anything else."

"You are a prize," he said. "You should be out in the world, not stuck in this shithole of a town."

"And you're coming with me," she persisted. "I don't care about the world if I can't bring you."

"Okay," he agreed. "Works for me. Beautiful," he murmured.

She rested against him in silence, not wanting to ever have to move. Sherry had grown up without an understanding of things like love and appreciation, but if this tightness in her throat and chest, if this terror that she might one day have to face the world without him was it, then she was willing.

They lay in silence for a time, then Jerry opened the door. "Coming down," he said. "If you need to get decent, now's the time."

She shifted, yanked the sweater over her head, leaving the brain- and blood-soaked tank top on the floor beside them.

"Got you a car," Jerry announced as Ron sat up. "Place to hide is your own look-out. Media's already moved in, police bands are buzzing. You two are quite hot right now."

"Witnesses?" Sherry asked, looking to the older man with a gaze that said she might not have the balls to take care of it if there were.

"Haven't heard about any yet," he said, shrugging. "Not the sort of thing they'd discuss on the radio, though. But they are onto the Eastender connection. So you'd best be avoiding any regular haunts." Ron was already standing up, accepting the keys. "I know a place," he said. Jerry shrugged and waved a hand. He didn't want to know.

Sherry stood, one hand around her torso, and politely removed the evidence from his carpet. She looked to her feet, which were bright red and fucking frozen. "Got any socks or anything?" she asked.

Jerry jerked his head toward the chest of drawers in the corner. "All sorts of leftover clothes in there," he said.

She thanked him and hobbled over, taking the first pair of wooly winter socks she saw as well as some boots--looked to be Malton FD regulation--and a shirt for after she cleaned up.

"Ron, you need any money?" Jerry asked. Ron nodded, and the man produced a small wad of bills from his pocket. "The usual interest," he said with a smile.

"We have all the weapons used," she realised. "Any way to make 'em disappear?"

"Leave 'em in the car. They'll go into the river."

She nodded and hobbled up to the main floor to do so, her feet still painfully sensitive. But it was that speed that had saved them.

Ron followed her up. "I'll take care of it. You get something to eat real quick." He patted her back and walked out the door.

She smiled uneasily. "Thanks," she whispered. And as she moved to the kitchen, nothing sounded better than some hot soup or the like. She'd subsisted mostly on take-out her whole life, what with her family lacking the necessary kitchen appliances, and she quietly asked how to prepare it.

Jerry put some chowder on the stove. "Fairly simple stuff," he said. "Warm you right up."

"Thanks," she said with more appreciation than would be expected from someone in their situation.

He shrugged. "Don't particularly want to know your name, for obvious reasons. So what do I call you?"

"'Hey you' works for most blokes," she said with a smirk.

"Sassy," he said decisively. Ron came back in. "What's that smell?" he said, tracking it into the kitchen.

"Chowder," Sherry said cheerily.

"I could eat a fucking horse right now," he said hungrily. "Mind if we stay a few longer, Jerry?" The older man nodded his assent.

Sherry thanked him again, staying by the stove partially for warmth and partially due to the intoxicating smell.

The chowder burbled and bubbled, and Jerry ladled them out each a heaping bowlful, then left to resume his work in making the evidence disappear.

"How'd you meet him?" was what she wanted to say, but something told Sherry that wouldn't be wholly appropriate. So instead she ate ravenously, letting the warmth work its way into her extremeties. "This is fucking good," she announced.

"Yeah," he agreed, working a land-speed record in devouring his bowl. "Always is, after."

"So where are we headed?" she asked after finishing the soup and dishing them both the remnants.

He slurped down the last bit. "I know a couple of places. We can't stay anywhere for long, until I get some people to shift this around a bit."

She nodded. "I don't want to get into it here," she said quietly, "but I've been wanting to ask you something..." As in, will we be going somewhere quiet?

"Okay," he said. He dumped the bowl into the sink. "Let's get going, and you can ask."

She smiled, dropping off her dishes and following him out the door. That was what she loved about him: no bullshit.

He clambered into the junky little import car, sliding the seat back to get some vestige of legroom, and started it up. The engine sounded a bit sickly, but it ran. He let it warm up for a few minutes. "So," he said. "Question you wanted to ask?" He rubbed his hands together to warm them up.

She scratched the back of her neck and looked to him, blue eye glittering in the darkness. "I know it's not my place to say this," she said, "but... What happened today... It's only going to happen again."

He shrugged. "It's the life I live," he said, putting the car into gear.

"But it doesn't have to be," was where she'd been leading him.

"And when I can get out, I will," he said. "Right now, I'm a little wanted by the law. Makes getting a regular job sort of difficult."

"Well, we can take small steps," she said. "First off... Do you know who they were?"

"Sharpstons," he said. "There's old business 'tween me and them. Thought they'd gotten over it by now..."

"Eastenders get a lot of this shit, don't they?"

"When you're on top, that just means everybody can shoot at you," he said, pulling out into the street.

She didn't say anything, and when he looked back to her, he'd realise that she was crying for reasons unknown.

He didn't say anything, assuming it was response to the trauma of the evening. He drove them along the freeway, then took the ramp down to a part of town that was a bit off their usual turf.

"I don't know if I can keep doing this," she said suddenly. "I... Can't stand knowing I'm supporting the bastards that hurt my mum, Ron."

"I told you he wasn't a real guy in the group," he said. "He was a lot of fucking talk."

She nodded, accepting that for now, although she remained disgusted with herself. It wasn't a surprise, considering how the girl had grown up.

He pulled into a small cluster of abandoned buildings. "Stay here. I got to go talk to a guy." He left the car running, opening the door.

She nodded, turning up the heat and holding her hands to the vents. Didn't help much, but what did?

He was gone for fifteen minutes, then came back. "Okay, I've got a place for us, for at least a couple of days." He drove them around to an abandoned set of storage sheds, going down until he found the right one, then climbed out to open the door before driving the car in. It was obvious set to be a squatter's refuge, with a cheap space heater and some ratty blankets on the floor. He closed the door behind the car, fired up the space heater, then clambered back into the car. "Might as well stay warm in here long as we can," he said.

She nodded, having closed her eyes and taken a few deep breaths to calm herself. They were utterly silent for far too long.

He dropped the seat back. "I liked that TV," he said after a moment. "Got good reception."

"I'm sorry," she said as though admonishing herself.

"Not your fault," he said, reaching out to take her hand. "I'll buy another one."

She offered the closest thing she could to a supportive look, squeezing his hand as she commented dryly that she could see her own goddamn breath.

"Not going to be a fun few days," he said. "Sorry I got you into this."

She shook her head. "Better than being out here on my own," she reasoned.

"Wait to see if we don't end up in prison before saying that," he said.

"I'd be there on my own anyway," she said with a sigh.

"Maybe, maybe not," he said. "You're a fast one."

"You were faster."

"That time," he said, turning toward her. "Really, you are going to leave me behind someday."

"Why do you keep saying that?" she asked. "You're the only person I've ever met that I can actually see myself staying with..."

"Because you don't know how good you're going to get," he said. "I can see it."

"But that doesn't mean I'd leave you," she whispered.

"Maybe not," he said. "But there's no way I could hold you back," he said.

"I don't want to succeed if I'm alone," she said. "How could you just ask me to leave you, when you know you're all I've got?"

"Didn't ask you to leave, now did I?" he said with a wan smile.

Not yet. But she didn't say that. Instead she simply watched him from the passenger's side. "It's not too late for us," she said.

"Never said it was," he replied. "You're the gloomy one tonight," he said teasingly.

"Sorry," she said. A deep breath. "This is just a bit too... Familiar. Got scared."

"C'mere," he said, pulling her over to his seat. The positioning was awkward, with steering wheel and all, but they managed to get somewhat cuddled up. "It's okay."

"I know," she said, sighing and leaning on him. "But that doesn't mean I wasn't scared for ya."

"Don't worry about me," he said. "I always make it, no matter what."

"You'd better," she said somewhat defensively.

"I always do," he said. "Count on it."

She leaned on him and pulled the release lever on the seat, and suddenly they were horizontal. "That's better," she chuckled.

"Let's go get next to the heater," he suggested. "It's getting damned cold in here."

She nodded, and clambered off him while opening the door. The storage unit didn't particularly smell hospitable and it was still fairly cold, but she didn't mind.

He pulled one of the ratty blankets over them as he settled down next to the heater. "Was going to take you out to eat tomorrow," he said, chuckling.

"We can eat in instead," she said with a dismissive shrug. "We're here and we're alive; 's all I care about."

"Was going to be a fancy place, though. Well, fancy for us," he said.

"Then we can go some other time," she whispered. She could have cared less about fancy restaurants, about anything other than what she'd said.

"We will," he promised.

"And one day we won't have to worry about this," she said. "About leaving our home, about being spotted on the street..."

"Yeah," he said. "Get real jobs. Doing... something."

She shrugged. "We'll come up with something. No better motivator than desperation."

"Isn't that the truth?" he said. "Sooner not have to be desperate, though."

She shrugged. "Been desperate my whole live. Haven't had a choice."

"Yeah," he said. "Well, we'll make something better. Promise."

"I don't care what happens," she saod, "I know we'll do what we can and I'll do anything to help. I want out as bad as you."

"You're something. You really are," he said admiringly.

"Just do what I have to," she said, not understanding what was so admirable about surviving.

He ran cold-stiffened fingers through her hair. "You have no idea. You really don't."

"Guess not," she said with a short laugh.

"Just stay at it. You'll go far."

"I'll go as far as I have to to be safe," she whispered. "That's all I really want."

"Well, we'll do something for that," he said.

"Just so long as you don't forget to take care of yourself, too."

"Told you, I always make it," he said. "Don't worry about me."

She chuckled. "Making it isn't what I'm worried about." Pausing. "You deserve to be happy too."

"I usually am," he said. "I really am."

"Good," she said. "Then I'll make sure you stay that way."

"You're doing a fine job so far," he pointed out.

"Then I'll keep at it unrelenting," she said with a grin.

"'Relentless' is your middle name, isn't it?"

"More like hotheaded," she said without shame.

"That too," he said. "So you have two middle names."

"What's yours?" she asked innocently.

"Travis," he said. "It's Travis."

She stared, then burst into a fit of laughter. Healthy laughter.

"What?" he said.

"I just didn't expect..." She laughed.

"What? What were you expecting," he said, fingers probing under the blanket, seeking her ribs.

She let out a quiet 'eep!' and attempted to chastise him with a disapproving glance. It failed. "I thought you'd just say a word, like you did for me," she said.

"That's your job," he said. Instead of tickling, his fingers traced along her ribs. More padding there than there was before, he noted with satisfaction.

"Well if you have two middle names too, yours would be Constance Noring," she said with a solemn nod.

He stared at her for a moment, lips moving, until he got it. Then the tickling started.

She squealed, trying to quiet her laughing as her face contorted. "Jerk!" she giggled.

"Yes?" he said. "My other other other middle name."

"You're just lucky I've reached my body count today," she said with a huff.

"No, I just like making you squirm," he said. "Any good excuse."

"Just so long as it's for the right reasons," she said suggestively, giving his hair an appreciative ruffle.

"It's one way to warm up," he said thoughtfully.

"Although we'll have to be particularly quiet," which she most definitely didn't have a reputation for.

"I can do it if you can," he said.

"Maybe if'n I can bita ya to keep my mouth shut," she said with a wag of her eyebrows.

"More biting?" he asked, his mouth curling in a smile as he shifted her around on his lap.

"Well not more than usual," she pondered.

"That'd be a lot of biting," he agreed.

"Well I've got a lot of quiet to keep!"

"You have an innocence to you," he said out of the blue. "It's... charming."

She cocked her head, staring at him with curiosity. "Whaddya mean?"

"You're playful, like a girl with her toys. I love it."

She wasn't sure what to say. In one way, she could turn that into an excellent double-entendre, but... "That's never a word I thought anyone would apply to me," she said with a chuckle.

"It's true, though. When you're away from everything, when you don't have to be on guard and you're not waiting for the next hit, when you're free..." he smiled. "It's a beautiful thing."

She considered what he said. When she looked up to meet his eyes, the look on her face was heartbreaking. "I've never been free," she whispered.

"You are now," he said. "Aren't you?"

"I hope so," was all she said.

"Right here, right now," he said. "Aren't you free?"

She paused, then fell against him as though freshly falling to earth. "Yes," she whispered. And it was only when they were together. When she felt like it was okay to let up.

"And you're so beautiful when you're free," he said.

She laughed. "Glad you think so."

"I could just look at you for hours," he admitted.

"I do," she admitted. "Watch you. While you sleep..."

"Really?" he said, obviously moved by the notion.

She nodded. "Almost every night. 'Cause I'm afraid somethin' might happen..." She took a deep breath. It had saved their lives that night.

"Glad you did," he said.

She smiled. "Anything to make sure you're still there when I get up."

"Don't think I'll ever want to wake up with you not around," he said.

"Feels good," she said, that knot in her stomach tightening up again. "To hear that."

"I don't try to get rid of you, Sherry. I just think a time will come when I'll just slow you down," he said gently.

"I still don't understand," she said, tears welling in her eyes.

"You're smart, you're ambitious... you're smarter than I am," he admitted.

"You're more stable than I am," she said, "you're experienced. We can work together."

"For now," he said. "For now."

"What do you think is going to happen?" she whispered.

"I don't know. I just know that someday, you'll be far ahead of anything I'll ever do."

"That won't change the fact that you're the only one who loves me, who believes in me."

"There'll be others," he said. "Once we're in a different world, not the fucked-up one we're in now."

"But that doesn't change how I feel about you," she said.

"It doesn't for now," he said. "And I'll take every moment I can with you."

She trembled against him. "Take all of it! All of me! I don't care!"

"Shhh..." he said. "It's okay. I'm not leaving."

She pressed herself close to him. "I'm going to stay until you're gone," she whispered. "'Til the end of fucking time, okay? I don't know if I could make it without you..."

"You could," he said. "You sell yourself entirely too short."

"I wouldn't want to," she said with a sniff.

"Hey," he said, lifting her chin. "If anything happens to me, promise me that you'll go on. That's the life we live. Understand me?"

"But you always make it," she whimpered.

"But if it does," he said, insistant.

"I--" can't, won't, couldn't.

"Will," he insisted.

She collapsed, sobbing. "I can't! I've lost fucking everybody... If I lose you I'll go crazy!"

He wrapped his arms around her. "Shhhh..." he said, just letting it drop for the moment.

"Where would I go? What would I do?" she asked. "I'm not... I can't... On my own yet..."

"Not yet," he said. "Not yet. Don't worry about it."

For a good few minutes she couldn't help but continue to shake. The idea of suddenly being without him rattled her foundation. And he was right: in this and other ways, Sherry was like a child. She'd need help developing past that.

It was at that moment that he decided that the relationship had to end. Not immediately, but soon. She would have to stand on her own. For all his bravado, he knew well that he could die at any time, and that she would surpass him someday. But for the moment, he held her close, rocking her gently.

Relationship or not, she didn't need a lover right then. She needed guidance.

"Get some sleep, love," he said gently. "I'll be here when you wake up."

"If not I'll kick your ass," she whimpered, wiping her runny nose with the back of her sleeve.

"Shh... just ease off..." he said, whispering. "Sleep."

She pulled the blanket around them, soothed by his voice and the pathetic hum of the heater beside them.

"That's it," he said. "That's it. Beautiful girl, I won't let anything happen to you."

"Just remember," she whispered, "'til the end of the world, okay?"

End of the world, though, Sherry thought. Why the fuck would she let something like that stop them anyhow?

"Don't go back," the young man said. "You were sold out. Eastenders sold you to make peace. You're cut out cold, and they'll send you up for the murders if they can." They sat in the corner of the coffee shop, talking quietly.

Sherry sat beside Ron with a thin line for a mouth, her lips pursed together in thought. This could be their chance, she thought. Somehow. The quiet conversations in the building caught her attention... Things about school, about music, current affairs... So different from why they'd gathered.

"And the Caps?" Ron asked. The other man looked at him. "They're with you, for now. But if you're going to make a move, you're going to have to hit back hard."

She wasn't too involved in the upper-level mechanics of the gang, and so when the conversation turned to things that didn't concern her, she stared out the window and sipped her coffee.

"You going to walk, or stay on?" the other man asked point blank. Ron took a sip of his coffee. He hadn't gotten where he'd gotten without having a certain degree of ruthless, competitive fire. "I'm going to take it right back at them," he said. "Tell the Caps to get together. We're going to hit them where they live."

And whether he could see it or not, Sherry smiled a little at that. Although they'd ended their romantic relationship a few weeks before, she placed a reassuring hand on his leg and squeezed. He'd done the right thing.

"Let's do it, then," he said, rising ot his feet. "Tonight. Before anybody has time to prepare."

"Tell me where you need me," Sherry said, standing with them.

"You're with me," he said. "Cover my back, right?"

She nodded. No questions asked, no hesitation.

"Okay, clean in and out," he said. "We're not here to fight unless we have to. We're just torching the place, and then it'll blow on its own. Meth labs, y'know," he said with a wry grin. The Blackcaps checked their weapons in the back of the van.

Sherry nodded, checking her single weapon with the restless of an OCD patient. She was going in through the second floor, mostly unarmed as she was the fastest and was counting on not being seen. Destroy what looked like it was necessary, get the fuck out.

"Remember, quick," he said to her. "Once the place starts burning, it could blow at any time. And remember, no shooting inside. This one's tricky."

She nodded. "If I have to, I can get out through the roof, too."

"Good. Let's do this," he said, sliding the door open.

( /Log )

( One log will go here. )

( And a Sherry and Jaycee log here. )

( And another log here. )

( Sherry and Ron will go here... )