And where is the solace? Where is the salvation? Just across the river, there is...
Irving hurried to that lonesome burrow of hers with a brooding presentiment that, at the time, seemed irrevocable. Its dogged persistence aggravated her developing worry, and she became, not only aware of it, but sincerely ashamed and revolted. It was in moments like these, where the young woman recognized a fault within her system – one that she may perhaps never exist with, but desired nothing more than to overcome it with such a monstrous force that even she herself might...
At last, she grew terrified. Even as she placed the key on the latch and pivoted it to the right with just the slightest of thought, she swore; she felt a tremor all throughout her body and onto her debilitating fingers, ripping a pained moan from her shrunken throat and striking her head with a discouraged blow.
"God! What is this? Will I not even step foot into this desolate cage?" The door slammed shut behind her and she fell back against it. She placed her elbows on her knees and raised the folder before her sight.
She scrutinized the paper for a few seconds in silence until she grew sick of it and threw it away from her. She buried her head within her hands.
A minute passed by, and she maintained a motionless form. Blankness overtook her thoughts and as if by advantage, she no longer had any conscious thought to deliberate on. And yet, with some unknown certainty, she reckoned that what was truly to be deliberated upon, did not need her deliberation, as it were. She knew it would mark its presence, suddenly, without a moment's notice and moreover, without any sort of moral approach. Something was originating itself, but she strangely felt no apprehension towards its consummation.
This lifted the stone off her chest and returned her breath, superfluous with life. She raised her head and looked round the room, at the ancient furniture, at the dull walls, at the covered windows and finally at the discarded folder.
Her stare became fixated on that pile for, as it happens, in spite of all that precipitous confidence and inspiration she had acquired, a second thought remained to tantalize her.
"I have it all planned, but now... now, I wonder, will I go through with it? To the end? And why am I so worried? Something is pricking at the end of my cranium, and it will not leave me alone! Ack, but of that later. First, that warehouse and then, then that... that clown! But first the warehouse. Forget that brute! I need to get this little squabble over with and measure its priority. Then I will have all I need. I'm certain of that." She resolved to get up with a nod, took the papers and placed them on the kitchen's counter.
With a sweep of the hand she scattered them all before her, reading through them swiftly and keenly, only pausing to notice what appeared necessary in relation to her questions.
Her brows raised in surprise. "This is insane. A mere guerilla of five men managed to not only break in, but also face off and escape with Port Mafia cargo. That foolish doctor is in more trouble than I thought," she observed with cruel mirth. She continued smiling while analyzing how truly risible the entirety of the situation was until a thought resurfaced abruptly: The hacker.
That would be enough to diminish her elated spirits and arrogant ridicules. She turned gravely disappointed. Evidently, the hacker was an ally, but what sort of ally? A beginning piece or a temporary blessing? No matter the case, they proved to be a notable asset: hacking into an illegal company's system and attaining the passwords to one of their heavily fortified and obscured storages.
What were they stealing, exactly? She arrived at the inquiry with an unusual fixation. She looked through the papers with one more study until pausing at a small list. "Sixty-seven grenades, seventy-three Thompson... submachine guns, fifty handguns, and... seventy turret guns... along with ammunition... we've had turrets?"
