Rogue Standing

Three

"You know, they're all looking for you, kid."

Glancing up from where she sat, fifteen year old Mary Travil gave a look of bewilderment before it was quickly replaced with annoyance.

"How'd you find me?" She demanded rudely, earning a disapproving scowl from her Minder.

"It's my job to watch you," Clint pointed out, "It was only a matter of time before I caught onto your little game."

Mary scoffed and let her head rest against the chimney crown of the many scattered along the roof. Her home was big, so it was no surprise she used that to her hiding advantage. A predicable spot, left overlooked.

"Why are they trying to force me into meetings already?" She asked suddenly.

Clint gave a sigh. "We both know the answer to that. If I said it out loud, I'm sure it'd only make you feel more shitty," He scratched the back of his head and with a hearty grunt, sat besides her.

"It's not as bad as you think," He continued, giving the top of her head a small pat. "Take your brother for example. He started attending meetings at thirteen."

She fell quiet, her eyes looking him up and down with sudden calmness. Clint's usual duty attire was replaced with a casual T and sweats, his blonde hair left unkept and his presence void of it's repetitive seriousness.

"I'm not my brother," Smacking his hand away, her mood peaked once more, "Don't compare me to that asshole."

He playfully held his hands up in surrender and gave a whistle. "Down girl," he mused, "I'm just trying to shed some light."

"Well don't," Mary fired back harshly, "It's terrifying enough having my life controlled and dictated. My brother doesn't get to be my standard. No one does."

_________________________________

Mary blinked back that horrid memory.

She felt sick to her stomach, and unable to control her racing heart, she fisted the front of her shirt. Her skin was clammy and tight. The constant throbbing in her head had spiked enough for it to match the steady rhythm of drums. Was this a blessing in disguise? Clint was there. Unfortunately alive and well despite the state he had been in the last time she saw him.

He was dressed as she had always remembered him to. Covered completely in black in his sleeveless hoodie, neat button down shirt and flared ankle banded pants. His boots were dirty, and his hair and face looked unkept with exhaustion.

He looks older, Mary thought.

"Where is she?" Clint sneered in Dean's face, but as soon as his question surfaced, his eyes widened.

His gaze met hers intently, and from the simple sight of his frown, Mary felt the string that had been sawing her brain snap in two.

Clint's glare was immediate. "Mary," her name left his mouth like venom, gruff and low. "You need to come home."

"Puppy," she cooed his old nickname, the corners of her mouth twitching up ever so slightly.

He threw Dean aside, who stumbled into the gathered crowd of vamps, and with the tilt of his head, snickered. "You think this is a game? Like I said, it's time for you to come home."