far and away | quill

one

Snow.

She wiped the death off her hands with the snow, and looked down at the man. His body was lifeless, his eyes were glazed over. She pulled her knife out of his stomach and stood at her full height, pocketing the dirty dagger.

Turning, and walking out of the alley, she pulled her hood up.

The hooded cape was wool, keeping her cold body warm. She pushed through the moving crowd.

Cars hovered above the busy sidewalk.

She brushed away people's thoughts about her and where she must be from and what she must've been doing. But no one had the guts to ask her. Therefore, she answered no one.

She just mumbled to the voices as she followed her normal route to the mercenary's bar.

She pushed the heavy door in and closed it behind her.

She let her hood down, she belonged here. She fit in here. Among the musk, the stale sweetness of alcohol, the laughter and yelling, were her friends.

She walked to the bar and sat down on a stool.

"Dead?" The bartender, her friend, asked. She nodded and he added another chalk tally on the chalkboard.

"That's ten this week," he mumbled, looking at her as he poured a drink. He handed it to her, "That makes two hundred, even. The units will be transferred tonight. Be careful Quinn, please."

"I'm not going to get caught," she stated, trying to soothe his anxiety, "I'm too good, too clean."

"And the cops are too ready to lock you up. Murder, arson, theft, and what was the last?" He asked, already knowing.

"Assault and battery," she said, smiling and downing the drink. It stung, but in a good way. It loosened her tight muscles, relaxed her stomach, and quieted the voices.

He rolled his eyes, "You're insane."

"So? And besides Jamey," she paused, "It's not my fault." She regained seriousness, lowering her voice.

"How were the voices today?" He was almost inaudible.

"Horrid."

"Your's or their's?" He asked, watching the muscle in her jaw twitch.

"Both," she traced the lip of the glass with her finger, "It's not the voices so much, anymore. It's the feelings that are tied to them." She looked at him, his face was inches away from her's.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, almost leaning in, "You don't deserve it." His voice made the hair on her arms stand on end.

She looked deep into his dark green eyes.

She heard his thoughts, without trying to, like all the others.

She nodded and whispered, "Yes. You can kiss me, James."

He smiled and put his hands on both sides of her face, leaning in.

"Excuse me, ladies and gentlemen," a voice tore them apart before they were ever together. They both turned to see a bulky grey man with red tattoos. He stared directly at her.

"I hate interrupting your fun time, but I'm here to get one of you under my custody. Quinn Grey, gather your things. You're coming with me," he moved forward.

"No she's not," the bartender said, going around the counter.

Out of instinct, she reached forward and grabbed his hand and ran for the back door. The other mercenaries tried to buy them some time.

They left the building.

"Keep running," she said shakily as they ran down the now-empty sidewalk. She wondered where the people had all disappeared to, but shook the thought off as she focused on running away.

Her hand was locked in his as they ran.

"I'm giving you one chance to stop running!" The grey man yelled behind them.

He raised a gun. She told James to keep running. He looked back at her, as she had stopped. She knew what was going to happen without turning around.

She looked at her friend and as the gun fired, she watched his flashing eyes. He yelled something she couldn't hear.

The shot went to her thigh. She fell to the ground, withering almost.

He rushed to her, holding her, whispering words that were lost in the wind.

It stung, and it was a different sting than the beverage had given her. This one tightened her muscles, tensed her stomach, and brought the voices into a full-on screaming match.

Her eyes wide as her world darkened and closed in on itself.