"Rosie..." He let the name flow off his tongue, testing it for the first time. It was a pretty name for a pretty girl, he thought, and even though thoughts like that should have been the furthest from his mind, given the circumstances (not to mention the warmth of whiskey currently running through his veins) and the fact that his primary purpose now should be to ascertain her physical condition, seeing if she was okay, he was still enraptured by her appearance.

She was absolutely gorgeous.

He then tried to shake off the thought. He wasn't buying that Rosie (he also then briefly wondered if that was even her real name) was completely unharmed. Her attacker had thrown her quite hard and he was close enough a witness (and still sober enough) to gauge that hitting the ground like that would have likely caused some measure of injury; even just a sprained ankle, or something.

He gave the girl another, more thorough glance, trying to find any bruising, blood or other evidence of injury. She was tiny. Even sitting, folded up as she was he could tell she was small. What he couldn't tell was how old she was. She could have been in her mid-teens or even mid-twenties; it was impossible to ascertain, for whatever reason. If she was indeed a teenager, that begged the question with even more emphasis on what exactly she was doing all the way out her by herself. Everyone on Oahu knew Iroquois Point and the other parts of the island near it like Ewa Beach and Kapolei were strictly off limits to civilians, given their proximity to the joint Air Force and Navel base and the only reason he was even allowed here was due to special permission.

He met the girl's stare again and couldn't even begin to guess what she was thinking. She had just witnessed a man's death and he knew perfectly how shocking and traumatic that that could be. He wished he hadn't had to kill the man, or that she had to see it, but he was left with very few other alternatives.

Blood was now pooling around the attacker's body and he knew that she had followed his glance. He now needed to focus on keeping her mind occupied on something other than the dead man in the street.

He pulled one of the two fresh magazines from his belt pouch and swapped it for the one in his pistol (and most prized possession), a Smith & Wesson manufactured Walther PPK/S chambered in .380 Auto, and satisfied that he was fully reloaded, in case someone or something else unexpected decided to show up, he returned the weapon to his concealed, inside the waistband holster next to his right hip. She observed him doing this of course, but didn't say a word.

"I'm Marcus," he finally said, making sure his black T-shirt and black hoodie sweatshirt covered the pistol, before deciding instead to pull his sweatshirt off and slowly approach the girl, trying to hide his limp the best he could. She didn't move in the slightest, even as he extended his arm and offered his bunched up sweatshirt to her.

"Here," he said. "It's a little cold tonight and you're not exactly dressed the part."

And it was true. She only wore a pale red sundress and red ballet flat shoes and it was a cool night by Oahu standards. So, this girl, whoever she was, was in the middle of a no trespassing zone and wasn't even remotely dressed appropriately to boot.

She just continued staring at him; he was a little surprised she had even spoken enough to offer her name.

He sighed. "Please take it. I have a phone call I need to make and I'll feel a whole lot better if I know you're somewhat comfortable while I do."

Rosie thought on this for a moment, before brushing a lock of her long, flowing red hair out of her face and slowly extending her hand and accepting his sweatshirt.

"Who're you going to call?" she asked, her voice small and delicate, much like she was.

"Air Force Security Forces," he replied, pulling a zippered pouch from his pocket and opening it to reveal a broken down cellular phone, including main body, battery, and information card. He expertly assembled the pieces, and dialed the number he had forced himself to memorize. "They need to know about anything bizarre that happens in this area. I'm actually kind of surprised we haven't seen one of their vehicles, either from a coincidental patrol, or because of the whole gunshots thing."

He put the phone to his ear. "It's fine; I know a lot of them personally. Oh, and my feeling better is mostly contingent on you putting that on," he said wryly, trying to be as friendly as possible, as the phone dialing tone buzzed in his ear.

An annoyed sounding Staff Sergeant, one he had never spoken to before, picked up the phone and Marcus concisely relayed the situation and their location to the man, who estimated a patrol would be there in five to seven minutes.

Satisfied, yet wondering if the Staff Sergeant could tell he was somewhat drunk, or just maybe assumed so based on who he was, Marcus broke down the phone and returned the pieces to their zippered pouch.

"Why do you keep your phone like that?" Rosie asked quizzically.

"To keep people from tracking me," he replied, returning the pouch to its assigned pocket. "Just because they know where I live doesn't mean I want them to know where exactly I am all the time. At any rate, if I keep my phone on I tend to get phone calls and I don't like getting phone calls."

Marcus looked at her again. She had put the sweatshirt on and had wrapped it over her folded legs. She was so tiny, that his sweatshirt completely covered her as she sat like that and it would have likely nearly reached her knees if she had been standing.

"Plus, who knows if the Fog can track phones," he continued, using a joking tone. "I'd rather not be sitting at home and have a warhead land on me."

Was it just Marcus's imagination, or did he see her jump ever so slightly at the mention of the Fog? It was probably nothing. "So, Rosie, what exactly are you doing out here? You are aware that this area's restricted, yes?"

"No, I wasn't aware," she replied, blinking. "Why is it restricted?"

Marcus just stared. To his knowledge, everyone on Oahu (and probably anyone left on any of the Hawaiian islands) were perfectly aware of the rules.

"Um, are you serious...?" he asked. "You don't know? Rosie, do you know where you are?"

She nodded. "Of course I do. This is Oahu island, the most populated island of the state of Hawaii. This should be Iroquois Point."

"Well, you're not wrong," Marcus sighed again. "Where do you live? Surely you live somewhere on Oahu?"

Rosie's response was just to stare, which was rapidly becoming more common than any other response.

"I'm being serious, here," Marcus said. "They're going to ask you all the same questions that I am and if they're not satisfied with the answers, you'll likely be arrested."

If this revelation startled her, she certainly didn't show it.

"I'd rather not be arrested," she said finally, calmly. "Could you please not let that happen?"

"Well, I..." Marcus stammered, not sure what exactly to say. "That's not up to me..."

She blinked at him and if possible looked even smaller than before. "Please...?"

This whole situation was really starting to confuse Marcus. Seriously, who was this girl? Why was she being so difficult in identifying herself? Everyone in Hawaii was supposed to know to rules: Always identify yourself, know where you live, know who you live with, know exactly where you work and what you do for a living. This girl either knew all of this and was breaking the most important rule of all and wasn't disclosing any of it, or she genuinely didn't know. Marcus wasn't sure which of these situations was preferable. Either would result in arrest, detainment and interrogation at the hands of the Air Force Security Forces, who were likely rapidly approaching.

Was she a scavenger, maybe? Marcus only gave the thought a few moments, before concluding, based on the girl's general appearance, attire and lack of any tools that she wasn't.

Her attacker was certainly a scavenger. Before assaulting Rosie he had dropped a large backpack of tools and and even larger duffel bag laden with copper pipes, both of which now sat a couple yards away. Marcus looked around the neighborhood which had been abandoned for nearly fifteen years; he looked at all the houses, totally devoid of life, most of them obviously broken down or broken into. He had been dealing with scavengers ever since opting to live here, the sole resident of the entire area and this girl definitely didn't fit that mold.

"What are you doing out here?" Marcus asked again, trying to inflect a tone of concern.

Rosie didn't answer for a moment, before responding with one word.

"Learning."

Marcus didn't know what answer to expect, but it certainly wasn't that one. "Um, come again?"

"I'm learning," Rosie repeated, moving another strand of hair away from her eyes.

"Okay..." Marcus began. "So, um, what have we learned tonight?"

"That humans, when unrestricted by the norms and laws of society, can become quite primal and little better or more evolved than any other non-sentient mammal. Of course, I was already aware of that, but it's nice to observe it myself."

Jesus Christ, Marcus thought. There may've been something a little unhinged about this girl. Marcus did a quick mental rundown, trying to remember if there were any psychiatric hospitals nearby that this girl might have escaped from before ending up in the middle of Iroquois Point, a notoriously restricted area, and then almost being assaulted by a scavenger. If that were the case, she may have had a more interesting day than Marcus had had. But, to the best of Marcus's memory, any psychiatric installations left on Oahu were likely in Honolulu or towards Mililani and the center of the island with those two places being home to the majority of humanity that was still left here. If she had come from either of those locations, she had sure traveled a long way to get here.

"Did you know him?" Marcus gestured to the body of Rosie's attacker, whose pool of blood was slowly expanding further in every direction.

"No," she shook her head. "I've never seen him before. I wanted to talk to him a little and get some directions, but I suppose he didn't want to help me."

Marcus snorted. "No, he certainly didn't."

How in the world did this girl not only not have the good sense not to trespass in locations restricted by Government mandate and on top of that, try to willingly approach those who were also there illegally? It all made no sense to him how someone could show such a disregard for their own safety, but then again, nothing about this girl really made any sense to him.

"Do you always carry a gun?" she asked, cocking her head to look a his hip, where the PPK/S was now holstered.

Reflexively checking to make sure the firearm was concealed, he replied, "Yeah. Have to. It's sort of an unfriendly neighborhood, as you might be able to gather."

"You seem friendly enough. Have you shot many people?"

Taken aback by her sudden directness, Marcus thought quickly for a diplomatic answer to that. "No, thankfully not."

A lie, of course. No reason to say anything that might scare her. Not that she seemed overly scared, which was one of the things that was unsettling him the most. Regardless, hopefully he could resolve this, get the Air Force to leave them alone and get this girl back to wherever it was she came from.

"But we're getting off topic," Marcus deftly changed the conversation back to something a little more pertinent. He couldn't see the lights yet, but he could hear the quickly approaching vehicles of the Air Force Security Forces patrol, their sirens being the giveaway. It sounded like at least one armored Humvee and an Armored Personal Carrier. Leave it to the Air Force (and probably Brigadier General Carter) to dramatically overreact to a scavenger shooting. It wasn't like Marcus hadn't been in similar situations before. How many times did he have to tell them that, generally speaking, he was fine and when he notified them of a relatively minor incident he didn't exactly need a whole battalion to come to his aid?

"They're going to be here in just a couple minutes. Listen, I want to help you, I really do, but you have to give me something I can tell them so they don't flip out, which is always their first reaction to anything."

"What do I need to tell you?"

Was she even listening?

"Really...?" Marcus was actually starting to become stressed, whiskey notwithstanding. "Okay, and I'm not being funny here, you have about a minute, maybe ninety seconds to tell me exactly who you are and where you live before they get here. I can probably keep them off of you, but you have to tell me something, anything, so I can help you."

Rosie met his gaze and just stared for a moment, hopefully understanding and thinking on what he'd just said. Moving for the first time, she stood up elegantly, not showing any sort of discomfort or pain despite the fact that she had just been tossed around by someone over twice her size. Marcus's estimation was right and his sweatshirt draped over her frame, nearly reaching her knees. Only a couple of inches of her red sundress poked out from under it. With a sweep of her hand, she extracted her flowing hair from the confines of the sweatshirt and let it drape down her back. Her hair was quite long, reaching just below her waist. She didn't have it done up in any way at all, but it still framed her delicate, elfin face perfectly.

Once again finding himself distracted by her appearance, he tried yet again to shift his attention to more pressing matters. He was just about to do so when a set of headlights, quickly followed by a second came into view just down the street.

"Son of a bitch; no time now." Marcus turned to Rosie. "Okay, just play it cool. Don't look threatening, don't look guilty and whatever you do, for the love of God, don't run. They see you doing that, the best you can hope for is immediate detainment. There's even a chance they could start shooting if I'm not able to get any words in first."

Marcus sighed, trying to mentally prepare for what was coming. He was thankful, not for the first time in the last fifteen minutes, that he hadn't hit the bottle too hard before his walk.

"Now, get your I.D. out and just let me do all the talking."

"What I.D.? An American passport?" Rosie asked innocently.

Marcus felt a stone drop in his stomach. "Uh, I'm sorry, what?"

"What sort of identification do I need to have?"

Marcus blinked. "Oh, fuck."

Author's Note:

Ocean, by Dead Can Dance