They got out of there. No-one stopped them. They grabbed Cynthia's rucksack, Marc's duffel bag, a few supplies in the form of food, a wad of notes from the emergency safe and legged it. They ran to the bus stop and got on a bus to the train station.
"You don't have to stay with me," Cynthia told Marc, "you can bugger off if you want."
"No way. I'm going to find out who chopped off my hand."
"And then..." Cynthia asked, bemused by his fierce expression, as they trundled along the winding roads.
"Dunno. Didn't figure that part out yet." Marc looked sheepish and turned to look out of the bug-splattered window.
Cynthia was confused.
As far as she could tell, this kid had done nothing wrong; of course, first impressions weren't always right.
But this went against everything she knew.
She was born: parents killed, life was crap to her.
She rebelled: life hated her.
She fought back: life despised her.
Marc, a technician-for-life, who possibly broke into her headquarters? Hand lopped off.
And then there was, obviously, the intruder.
Did he injure Marc?
Why?
Was he working for life?
The bus halted and Cynthia was jolted out of her seat. Marc peered over his sling and remarked on the position she was in (one leg over the armrest, arms splayed across the aisle, hair fanned out behind her and flopping into her eyes) with a look of incredulity and laughter.
"Shut up." Cynthia growled as she struggled back into her seat.
"I didn't say anything."
YOU ARE READING
Working Progress
ActionA story about a girl whose life doesn't seem to give her any answers, and where life itself wants to control her. Needless to say she tries to rebel against it's plan for her.
