A jolt of pain hits me, sending signals to my brain to back away; I do. Then a tan hand reaches forward and pulls me back by the shoulder, forcing me to stay still, the other hand forcing my chin up. A wince releases from me at the movement and pain from the wound being opened further.

"For the third time," an accent hisses with authority, "stay still. You're being ridiculous. Others don't behave this way."

"I don't exactly see a medical degree on your wall," I growl, unable to glare at him because of the angle my head was at, forcing me to only stab at the ceiling with my eyes.

I heard a chuckle. "True. But that doesn't give you an excuse to act like a child."

I roll my eyes despite the fact that he can't see it. Then cold presses against my skin again, making me jump at the sudden stab of pain. The grip on my shoulder strengthened, but the Russian said nothing. He continued to dab the cut on my neck without a care to my nervous system and my brain screaming at me to back up. I glanced to my right to the leather couch where the bloodstained sun dress laid. I couldn't see much due to my having to stay still, but the cerulean contrast was enough to let me know it was the woman who attempted to end my life.

"You still haven't explained why I'm cleaning your wound."

I instinctively glanced down, only causing an eye strain.
"Because you're a kind-hearted soul," I said sarcastically. He stopped, and I could imagine- no feel - the look that read cut the shit. "Kind of a long story. Where were you, anyway, when all this happened?"

The assassin hummed thoughtfully, not ceasing in his movements of dabbing alcohol on my already-used-to-it wound. "Let's see...this was around midnight, you said? Almost one? I was in the parlor watching Supernatural."

"Why were you watching a show? You left me with her on purpose, didn't you? To see how we would react to each other?"

He laughed. "No, this isn't a novel or short story with a seedy-yet-mysterious character named Arturo Nikolai Kierkov. I just left because I forgot about the both of you."
"You forgot about our captive? That's very unprofessional."

The application of alcohol ceased and was replaced by the sound of a bandage being torn open. "Yes, maybe. But even though I know you hate Mrs. Briefs with every essence of your being, I won't test it. You'd end up killing her - oh, wait, you already almost did." Another laugh. I rolled my eyes.

"You're a jackass."

"Language."

"Like you care, you Russian prick," I growled.

He slid the bandage on my skin, pressing against it to make sure it stuck before allowing me to move my head down. I finally saw his dark black eyes trained on my hazel ones. "No, not really. But you usually do, so you're a hypocrite."

"Hypocrite?" I chuckled. "Hypocrisy is not something to describe me with."

"Maybe. But you're lecturing me about being a dreadful captor when you yourself have put her closer to death than I ever could." He glanced at the faintly breathing form of the heiress, the bloodstains still in her dress.

"You put stitches in correctly, right?"

"Of course. I don't want her bleeding out."

"Do you think it was a fatal blow?" I didn't move my eyes from her. Even if we were both on the floor a little a ways from Bulma, I could see her complexion adopted a much paler hue, most likely from the loss of blood.

"Oh yeah." Arturo shifted and slid the hair tie out, letting his onyx hair fall to his shoulders. He ran a hand through it, smoothing it. "But she won't die. Not with stitches and cloth to staunch the bleeding. She'll be alright. Or as you British say, "right as rain"."

I stood, seeing the dark colors in her dress again. "Goodnight, Arturo."

"Goodnight. I'll keep first watch."

I paused. I didn't quite believe Bulma needed a watch; "watch turns" are only for war or the apocalypse. This wasn't either one of those. "Before I go to bed...I need an answer." I turned toward the assassin.

"Well?" He said after noticing my hesitation.

I pressed my teeth together, the habit of grinding on a cigarette in anxiety or frustration. It was a better habit than drinking or whoring around. Hell, I would take chewing a cigarette over many other things. I would take that as a habit instead of attempting to find closure on a topic I'd heard from a particularly scary haunted house.

"Are you going to torture Bulma? Make her feel pain at all?"

Even if I was a couple paces away from the older gentleman, I could feel the intensity inside those coal-coloured eyes. "Goodnight, Augustine." I opened my mouth to reply, but my brain said "no".

I watched him leave the room swiftly, seeing his hands starting to move up and untie his eye patch. He was gone before it fell. I clenched my fists, a grimace painting over my lips. I walked past the CEO I hated, despised, but also felt sympathy for.

From there I left to the room I was given, not getting any sleep from the thought of screams, tears, and begging for a break from pain. It began to hurt - but maybe it hurt because I didn't have an answer yet...or maybe it hurt because I was the one who brought her here. Should I have killed her as she lay peacefully breathing instead of dragging her to the point of laboured breathing?

I didn't have to be woken up two hours prior to these thoughts. I was already awake. Then, sitting next to Bulma, the woman who I accidentally stabbed and needed to be hospitalized, I had the first argument with myself since the junior year of high school.

...

Warmth woke me up. I felt sunlight pressing itself on my cheek, shining in my eyes once I opened them. What also woke me up was tentative tapping on my cheek. I glanced groggily to my left, seeing a pale hand still on my shoulder. I turned around and saw icy cerulean eyes.

Well. As icy as they were capable of being. There was weakness in them. But nonetheless, the heiress still didn't like me. "Hmm?" I had only just woken up, and laying against a leather couch with a woman who attempted to kill me didn't exactly massage my back for me.

"Where's the other one?" Her voice was stronger than the rest of her.

"Dunno." I folded my arms on top of my knees, laying my face on top of them, planning to go back to sleep.

"Hey." She tugged - attempted to rip, I should say - my hair, pulling my head up.

"What?!" I pulled her hand away. "That wasn't necessary!"

"I want answers," she murmured.

"I just woke up. How am I supposed to know where he is?"

Bulma gave me a hard glare. "Then find out." I rolled my eyes and resumed attempting to sleep.

"Get up and do it yourself."

"I thought you considered yourself a gentleman."

"I do." I was only half-listening at this point. I heard her say something along the lines of being formidable and hating me, but by then I was out like a light.

...

A stinging sensation flooded my cheek. I snapped awake, my senses alerting me to reach for my knife on my right side. I hardly caught a glimpse before I was tugged forward by my jacket and my arm was forced down. My vision finally adjusted to the sudden zoom in to a dark eye.

"Where the fuck did she go?!" Arturo shouted, his Russian thicker than ever. "How did you manage to fall asleep?!"

"Let go!" I shouted back. He pushed me forward, making my already aching back hit the framework in the couch. "Why are you freaking out?! I thought we were at a loss-"

"There's someone else who wants her," he managed to say in a calmer sound. Then the hysteria returned. "Where is she?! Answer, dammit!"

He advanced on me, his hands curled into menacing fists. There was a quake in them, something that sent a chill down my spinal column. His eye was dark and his breathing was irregular and desperate. "I don't know-"

The first punch landed at my temple. I hesitated from the pain, throbbing coursing through my skull. Then I quickly got up, making my head spin. "Calm down, Arturo. We can find her. You don't have to beat it out of me-"

"But you fucking let her get away!" He shouted, almost pouncing on me. I glanced at his hands, seeing he hadn't reached for knives yet. But his eye was on my throat with the bandage he applied less than twelve hours before. "You don't understand how fucked I am now." His hand was hovering over his right pocket. I could see in his lone eye that maybe a shred of sense remained. Whatever the deal was and whoever the deal was with, I wasn't allowed in the equation. I messed something up, hadn't I? Well, of course. I didn't get slapped awake for nothing. But what?

He just said it, idiot, a voice said within me. You messed up a promise of his because Bulma's nowhere to be seen. What are you going to do about it?

Not too sure, I replied inwardly. "You don't have to resort to violence, Arturo. We can find her. She had an almost fatal wound, there's no way she could have gotten far-"

He bolted forward into the air to tackle me, his dagger flying out of his pocket with expertise I was still learning. I ducked, seeing him twist and dig the dagger into my back as he grabbed my shoulder and forced me to the floor, my chin banging the hardwood. I felt the blade dig into my flesh, a burning sensation tearing through my flesh. I could feel my heart beating hard on the wood, some of the blood it was pumping leaving by the entry just applied to my back. I heard him getting up on top of me. I tore the dagger out, the serrated edge making more blood tear out with it. Tears stung at my eyes, but I ignored them as best I could. I had a pissed off assassin behind me, and I could bet my blue mustang that he had more than just this one. He wouldn't give a blade over to become weaponless...so I couldn't afford to focus on the pain and cry over it.

I heard the familiar slide of a blade being removed. My back was still burning, hot fluid running down my back. I just had to hope and pray that he didn't strike anything major. And if he did...then I hope he regrets it later. His arm lashed forward, gripping my bicep in preparation to disembowel me or whatever fatality he wished upon me-

The door clicked open. I heard Arturo slide the blade back in its place. On my arm, I felt his hand begin to tremble, the previous expanse of strength releasing with the adrenaline.

"How did you get in my ho-"

"Shush." The voice was relatively young, no more than late 20s. I pushed my torso up, feeling Arturo stand and free his weight off of me. As he did so, the burn in back felt more like scalding. As I began to sit up, I saw alligator skin shoes, new from the look of the unworn leather. It made me think back to a time when I was younger, seeing an albino alligator in the zoo for the first time. I was excited then - now, seeing the olive green skin, I felt repulsed and a creep crawling up my spine.

The man had rough blonde hair, the colour of russet. His fair-skinned face was angled in a pixie-ish way, a small chin and eyes the shape of almonds. His eyes were oddly green, but part of me thought they were contacts. Those eyes flicked between the both of us. His small hands smoothed the front of his suede suit, an expensive-looking piece of clothing for such a small visit.

"I came here for the inventor, not the both of you stabbing each other. If I wanted to see that, I would have scheduled it over a tequila in front of a golden mansion. Now - where is she?"

Arturo's complexion was pale, an odd contrast to his usually dark tan. His light pink ribbons of scars looked like a bright red in contrast to his pallor colour. He opened his mouth to reply, then closed it. Then he tried again - he succeeded this time. "I'm not sure at the moment."

"Not sure? What the f- what happened?"

His hands twisted together, his fake green eyes the same hue as his shoes darkening. Arturo's black eyes stole to me, empty hate in them. "He let her go."

The stranger's hands twisted again. "Let her go?"

"Do you always repeat what people say?" I asked, harsher than I had wanted. My back was on fire, feeling like someone was holding a hot coal from the furnace on my flesh. From the long duration it's taking to stop bleeding, I guessed I wasn't too lucky on where he stabbed me.

Alligator-Shoes' lips thinned to a line cut into his flesh. It made me think of Insomnia's Ralph's confrontation with Atropos - nowhere near beautiful cuts into his flesh. Insomnia had been the only Stephen King book I had decided to read - afterwards, I'd stopped reading. This made me want to pick it back up again.

He ignored my stab at his personality, not so much as carrying for my presence, much less what I had to say. "How was she released?"

"I don't know."

"You don't kn-" He stopped himself, a glance at me and a check in his speech until he resumed: "What do you know, then?"

"Er...he was the last one with her. She was pretty pissed at him previously, so-"

"She hasn't fled." Alligator-Shoes stared at Arturo with the intensity of a starved crocodile first seeing food after several years. "She would have killed him and you to ensure her escape. She's not an idiot - she knows you'd track her down."

He began walking to the door. "I'll be back at two to collect." He spoke with the simplicity of a customer's announcement of returning for their dry cleaning. He even waved his hand back carelessly as he walked out the door.

Colour seemed to return to Arturo quicker than lightning. "That stupid woman...wanna-be."

"Bulma is a wanna-be? Of what?" I asked, debating whether or not he still had surgical thread to stitch up the stab he'd given.

"No. Not her. The one that just walked out." He growled. "Normally I don't care for them, but this one is different...stupid transgender," he hissed.

"Transgender?" I thought back to his thin, pointed face and almond eyes and small hands. "Do you have a thing against them?"

He sighed aggressively. "No. Just that one. And not the fact that he's trans. Just...him." He shook his head. "Go get the surgical thread - it's in the medicinal cabinet."

"Right...for the stab wound you gave me?" I replied bitterly. I felt the sting return as the adrenaline rush bubbled away. He didn't reply. His fingers tapped on his thigh, a tempo the speed of a fast-pacing heart. He smoothed the front of his white button-down, exhaling slowly.

"His name is Frederic Dilion...previously Frannie Belter. He's in a different syndicate of crime here in Japan. He's with the type of syndicate that you only see in video games. The kind that use any kind of brute force you can imagine to get what they want."

I felt a chill ride up my spine. Thoughts of torture and punishment crossed my mind as ways of punishment. Cold faces ignoring cries of pain and begging of mercy, dried blood from previous victims on the floor. A man with rippling muscles standing next to a mad scientist with streaks of blood on his face. The mad scientist holds a pair of pliers, flexing them menacingly at their victim that will soon donate more blood to the blood bank on the floor underneath them-

"-they want?" His voice sounded faraway for a moment, growing in volume like a stereo being turned up. His hands were shoved in the pockets of his black slacks, his hair not combed nor up in his usual ponytail. His shirt was mussed, less than half of his shirt buttoned. He must have been panicking before he approached me this morning. He shook his head, brushing his hair over his shoulder. "Fuck it. Stop standing there and get the thread, unless you want to bleed out on cherry wood."

...

We were back on the carpet together, his hands sending sutures through my flesh. There was no morphine available to the wealthy man, but he did make a sad attempt to numb the feeling of a needle going through my flesh with oral numbing cream used for teeth ache.

"This isn't helping," I said through gritted teeth. "Who in their right mind uses oral numbing cream for stitching?"

"I dunno. But I'm not in my right mind most of the time, ha, ha." I could almost feel him smiling behind me at his reply. I rolled my eyes. "Just bear with me. It'll be over soon."

"Where did you get a serrated edge?"

"On my knife?"

"No," I murmured, my voice dripping with sarcasm, "your shirt. Yes, your knife, dimwit."

He stabbed the needle through, making me wince. "Quit that," he said. "Anyway, all assassins can get a serrated edge. Come now, don't tell me you've been using a smooth edge this entire time?" I didn't reply. "Oh my. Now who's the dimwit?"

Silence made itself at home next to and between us. There it was, the thought we'd been constantly skirting. Where Bulma was.

But neither of us mentioned it.

Filled with silence other than slight wincing from me, the room began to take on a brighter hue of sunlight as the afternoon sun came to see what all the commotion was about between the unlicensed doctor and the uninformed assassin. Finally, the kit that held the surgical needle and thread clicked shut, filled with its supplies once more.

I stood, though not without my back whining for the skin to relax. Arturo handed my shirt to me. "How often do you hit the gym nowadays? I imagined you'd be much more built than this. You only possess maybe a two-pack."

I sighed. "I'm not trying to be built. Large muscles kill speed and stealth. I'm just toning." I pulled the shirt on over my head, seeing it was a three-quarter sleeved one. I rose a brow at him. "Really? For my jacket? Three-quarter?"

"Don't wear your jacket, then. It's a thermal." He placed both hands in his pockets, a small whistling tune originating from him.

"The weather forecast said rain."

"Sometimes it's wrong!" He shouted from the kitchen, the sounds of him retrieving a bottle of alcohol coming from the kitchen. I glanced down the hall for any sign of Bulma as I went into the room he was in, pouring a tall glass of what appeared to be vodka with a lemon twist.

"Where do you think she could have gone?" I asked.

"Dunno. After some thinking, I guess I would be alright if we never got her. Yeah, I'll get a slap on the wrist, but nothing more."

"What about the syndicate Dilion is from? Wouldn't they torture you or something?" I disliked the too-casual tone from me on the topic of torture. It sent a chill up my spine, making the sensitive stitching cry, yet here I was, speaking as if it was the weather forecast that Arturo declared to be wrong.

"If they can catch me." He leaned against the counter after he bottle as put up, downing more than a half of his glass in one go. "And if they do, I can put up with it. They're not that bad when it comes to torture."

"A human cannot put up with torture," I said, thinking of Guantanamo Bay. No one there really puts up with the unfair treatment, now do they? I've never seen a picture them dancing outside, either.

"Yes, you're right...but a human can put up with it if they have a reason to."

"All tortured people have a reason to." I crossed my arms over my chest, my back still upset.

"Yes, but they don't know if they're going to get back to families, friends, whatever. Believing that they will is what gets a man through, what allows them to spit in the face of their torturer. Would you believe that you can make it out of Alcatraz?"

"No. It's maximum security, no one has ever gotten out-"

"Right." He smiled. "Because of that common myth, people don't think of a way to get out, they just focus on not dropping the soap. But three men managed to escape-" He paused, taking a drink, "-and they haven't been caught since. They believed they could make it out. So they didn't think of prison. They thought of life outside. They ignored the taunts and the cruelty because they had the belief they would leave. So, based on this, a man can, in fact, not feel a thing when being tortured."

I let the silence drift in for a moment, studying his scars and face. "You can say anything without ever experiencing it. If you were tortured, you would take all these words back."

"But I'm not." He finished his glass, moving to refill it. As he poured a smirk tugged at his lips. "I'm standing my ground."

"You were never a stubborn man, Arturo. Why stand ground on land you've never even touched?" He replaced the bottle of lemon-flavored vodka and took a sip from his glass.

"Because I have touched that ground. How do you think I know so much about the syndicate's torturing methods?" He tapped his eye patch. "I learned not to fuck with them a long time ago. Scars are proof, too."

I stood, my vocal chords refusing to produce a sound. I uncrossed my arms, watching him take a drink. The scar on his neck moved as he swallowed. "Then why fuck with them now?" I say, the curse tumbling out on its own.

"Because," he placed the glass down, the sun sending rainbow lights through the crystal, "I hate that transgender. And that woman is not going to make it through torture. I was never a man to believe in unreasoned punishment. The most she deserves is a painless bullet in the head." He paused. "I know I'm going to hell. But I would prefer not to be neighbors with the Devil so low in hell because I let a woman suffer pain she did not deserve."

And the conversation ended with the glass being washed out and placed back in the cupboard with a click.

...

She returned when we were in the midst of cooking breakfast.

Arturo was sautéing mushrooms in a pan, the oil spitting up at him with a sizzle. He grimaced. "I thought it'd be easier than this," he mumbled audibly.

"You're the one who wanted to try a British breakfast," I countered, preparing the tomatoes in their breading to fry. "If you don't want this to take so long, don't ask to try it again."

"I prefer bacon and eggs," he murmured.

"There is bacon and eggs. There's just more things added along with it."

"Why do you have so much for one meal? You're not going to have any room for lunch." The oil sizzled once more, sending a drop of hot liquid at his arm, making Arturo cry out in pain. "Fuck!" He quickly wiped it off with a dishtowel hanging on the oven handle. I glanced over my shoulder to see what caused the oil to spit.

"None of the oil should be open," I said with a sigh, turning back. "Why do you have that much oil in the pan? I thought you knew at least the basics of cooking."

"I do!" He insisted, moving the mushrooms around half-heartedly in a poor excuse of a sauté. "I've never had to fucking sauté anything before, though!"

"Watch your language." I left the tomatoes and moved him aside.

"How the fuck do you know how to sauté, then?" He asked, ignoring my words.

"That one Louvre assignment."

"What about it?"

"When I had to hide in the kitchen, some good-hearted sir thought I was a poor man, he decided to teach me how to cook a little so I could eat."

"Two questions. One, why did you look poor? Two, how does this man think you can sauté when you're poor?"

"One, I had just gotten out of dirty scuffle and I was pretty beaten. Two, he's just not very bright. Heart's in the right place, but not much a scholar."

Arturo remained silent. Small chatting went on for a good fifteen minutes, mushrooms and tomatoes sautéed and fried in the meantime, as well as bacon laid in the pan. Just as the bacon was sizzling and getting crispy, the door opened and shut with a weak click. I glanced at the man next to me, seeing the same amount of surprise.

"No wonder Dilion got in," I said quietly. A knife was already turning in my hand. The same mental precaution was flickering in Arturo's eyes. He followed behind me. We didn't go immediately to the living room. Circling out the other way of the kitchen and down the hall put us in the position of being right behind them, able to slit their throat calmly.

Just as we reached the corner of the living room, Arturo ran forward, speed that could be matched with a tiger in human standards. My body told me to run after him and catch his collar - he was too loud. This wasn't stealth. Whoever this person was would hear him five feet away. Faintly I heard the click of a gun.

I sprinted after him, hearing the booming sound of a pistol discharging. My heart felt like a stone, dropping as fast as a bullet could bury itself in Arturo's chest. My sprint faltered, slowing and picking up again. Panic began to seize my throat as I heard the sound of a body falling to the floor. By the sound of it, it was heavy.

Did Arturo carry a gun? I couldn't push the thought back. After several years of education under criminal justice and forensics, logical question tended to bounce up out of habit. No, Arturo never carried a gun.

How heavy is he, my brain inquired. That I didn't know, but looking at him, the heavy thud could've been him. Probably was.

But where is the sound of a struggle? I stopped. There could be lack of a struggle if Arturo was shot dead, but what are the chances of the notorious Russian assassin being gunned down? He taught how to dodge bullets, so either this intruder was a brilliant marksman or Arturo messed up.

No, there's another option. There could be no fight at all. But why would the gun go off? They got scared? Unlikely, but not to be crossed off the list. I stopped running and stepped silently over the carpet. I heard a tinkle of glass fall to the floor, the sound of a small crystal glass hitting concrete nearby. They were right around the corner.

I readied my knife, then glanced over the corner. My eyes widened and a gasp was barely swallowed in my throat.

I took a step back, not sure how to handle such a situation. The scent of burning bacon followed me.

I pocketed the knife, walking out from behind the wall, stepping and crunching a shard of glass. Arturo had blood on his arms, but he was breathing. He wasn't what shocked me. It was the person laying on him.

Exhausted with a gun hanging out of hand lay the CEO who'd disappeared. She still wore the bloody sun dress. The warm colors no longer suited her overly pale complexion. Bulma was taking shallow breaths. There were multiple cuts on her, one bruise on her calf. Her ankle looked sprained. Tears hung in her eyelashes.

I exhaled, seeing Arturo smile. He opened his eye. "Hey. Scare you?" I nodded. "Nope, not hurt. Arm just a little cut from glass. She, however, is probably on an inch of her life."

"Do we take her to the hospital?" I asked as he began to sit up, glass dusting off his shirt. He shook his head and looked at the limp body in his arms.

"No. We still have to consider our freedom. And the syndicate we're against." He stood, carrying Bulma. Her head rested on his chest, her shallow breathing neither worsening or bettering.

"She's going to die, Arturo." I stared at him incredulously. "We can't just...care for her ourselves. Neither of us know how to deal with the stab wound, a sprained ankle, and multiple cuts in a way that would get her better quickly and with no pain."

"True. Wish I carried morphine." His lips teased a smile. "We'll do our best, then."

"Our branch has an infirmary. A great one. And so do all the others," I said, attempting to reason as he carried her upstairs, me following behind him as he listened. "Why not take her to one of those?"

"They're only in Japan. We don't have any actual buildings in other countries. We can't ask another syndicate because they don't know us. Just as we would frown upon helping another syndicate, they would frown on us." He opened a free room, the one next to mine, and set her on the bed. He opened the drawer and took out a plain t-shirt that showed Aerosmith and a pair of pajama shorts. He opened another drawer and took out a set of underwear. Each of these were in her relative size, aside from the shirt that was a size too big, most likely for comfort.

"You're going to undress her?" I said with shock. He shook his head.

"Nope. You are. I have to get more medical supplies. While I'm gone, get her changed. Before you do, though, get her to take four sleeping pills, for two reasons. First, she'll lash out if you're in the middle of changing her. And second, she needs to stay asleep to heal. Anyway...see ya."

"What?!" It came out more panicked than I would have liked, the sound Desmond would make if said to grope a woman - the sound of desperation to not do it. "But I can't do something that indecent! That would mean seeing a woman naked, gov- forget what I said after 'seeing a woman naked'!"

Arturo laughed. "Yeah, it does. You're blushing and your heavy accent is showing. If you get turned on, relieve yourself in-"

"I am NOT going to get turned on!" All of the "t"s were not said except for "turned". I groaned, thinking back to enunciation and pronunciation. "I will be mature about it." This time all of the "t"s were pronounced accordingly. I made a mental note to myself to control my temper a lot more strictly than I have been in the future. The assassin shrugged.

"'kay. See you. I'm gonna help myself to a slightly burnt breakfast. I'll save you some." He flashed two fingers behind him, symbolizing peace or victory. A few moments later the front door thudded shut. I ran a hand through my hair as I left to get the sleeping pills. What if I accidentally made her choke? What if she woke up when I was giving them to her?

Finding the pills were simple enough. Walking back and finding her awake was not. She was attempting to sit up. "No, lay back down," I said. She shook her head, still going. A spot of blood appeared at her chest. A stitch had come out. I rushed forward, pressing her back down. She winced.

"No, I'm leaving," she said weakly. "Fuck you and him."

"I need you take these pills." I still held them in my right hand as I held her down.

"You're trying to overdose me." It came out barely above a whisper.

"No, I'm not. They're morphine capsules." The lie came out quick and effortlessly.

"I thought you'd want me...to feel pain." Her voice faltered. I gently shook her, forcing consciousness on her.

"Stay awake. I do not want you to feel pain. After you take them, you can go to sleep, okay?"

"No. Fuck you."

I sighed. "We have an appointment at two...three, whatever. Why would I want you dead for that?"

Either genuine reason in my voice or weakness, she asked for water to take them with. She took all four without question. No more than a minute later, she was asleep. I sighed. Now the harder part.

Undressing her was relatively easy. I took extra precautions to clean her wounds, but it wasn't comfortable with her nude body open. I forced myself only to focus on cleaning the wound, mending the stitch, and dressing her once more. Only once did I feel a warmth build in my abdomen, but that quickly subsided as I brought my attention back.

While I was pulling the shirt on over her head, she began to thrash out at me. I thought she was awake at first, but her eyes were closed and she was mumbling things I didn't recognize. She called for her husband once, fearful and shaking. A tear streamed down her cheek as she mumbled something about not wanting to be here and her son. My chest ached from holding back guilty tears. I suddenly regretted ever being given the assignment or ever deciding to kidnap her instead of slitting her throat peacefully.

As she calmly fell back to sleep, dressed and wounds redressed, I let the regret come and tears fall.

...

When he came back from the store after our short breakfast, it was one in the afternoon. Bulma was asleep peacefully upstairs, probably would still be asleep at two, maybe even three. But, as I was reminded by Arturo when he returned, at two she would be gone. She might be strapped to a chair with five teeth missing at three.

Arturo stretched his arms back, several pops sounding from his joints. "Thanks for redressing her wounds. Throw away a used condom or should I wipe the bathroom down-"

"It didn't affect me. Undressing her, I mean." An old paperback was in my hands as I laid on the couch, wanting to forget about whatever nightmare she had about thirty minutes ago.

"Look at the gay man!" Arturo laughed. "I'm playing with you. Good control. I'll be honest, I would've been a bit weirded out if I found a used condom in my trash bin."

I nodded. The book wasn't very great in terms of description. Her hair flew back with the wind. Her lips smiled. Her voice carried over the air. I love you, she said, but her voice was carried by the wind to me where I stood on the pier. Tears stung at my eyes as she departed on the ship-

Why not spice it up with words to make a heart sing and feel? Her golden hair flew in the wind as gently as an angel's wings. Her red lips teased a smile. Her serene and musical voice that enchants all carried over the salty, calm breeze. I love you, she seemed to sing softly, but the wind magnified it to be as strong as an opera declaring love for only me who stood on the rickety pier where lovers stood on moonlit nights. Briny tears made their way down my cheeks and danced with the wind, shining with the setting sun. My dearest angel, the one that made my heart sing and my hands craved, left on the pristine ship meant only for a princess. That was how you write a book.

I sighed. I closed the book, a foreign melancholic feeling in my chest. Selene, her own golden hair and her strict attitude that made me smile when I broke it with a hug, was in my head. Her rare smile that made her brown eyes behind glasses smile along. My heart seemed to want to will her to me. She would spin out those words for a romance novel as easy as it was a seamstress to sew a button. My beautiful author who left me because of my ridiculous and selfish decision. But those words made me think of her, the good side of her I cherished for the better of ten years, not the one that threw her wedding ring at me and shattered a mirror-

A tap on my head broke my spell.

Arturo was balanced on the balls of his feet in front of where I laid on the couch, his arms resting on his knees. A sympathetic smile on his lips. "You have a depressed look, D-Money. What are you thinking about?"

"Just the past. And Bulma." I sat up, but he didn't move.

He rolled his eyes. "Oh, Christ, my lord and savior. You've fallen in love with her."

I laughed; it was a genuine, full laugh. Even if I'd only felt upset for about an hour, it felt foreign but good. He smiled. "No, I'm not in love with her. But I feel bad for her. I regret bringing her here. And I don't want her to suffer at the hands of Dilion."

"That makes two of us." He placed either hand on each knee, standing. "So. What are we going to do about it?"

I blinked. "Why do you not want to give her up?"

"I told you. I don't believe in unfair and unreasonable punishment. Even if they do have a reason, I don't want her to suffer. She has a family."

"That didn't stop you from other victims."

"They had a reason to be terminated. They were bad people. To each his own poison." He paused. "But I'm more concerned about you. Why do you want to help her? You've had a major change of heart - going from hating her more than a liberalist hates the government to wanting to save her life. You wanted to kill her. But throughout this whole adventure of ours, you've been passive."

I sat up, crossing a leg over the other. "I'm not sure. I said that I didn't want her to suffer and all, true. But as for the real backing reason in my change of view might be..." I paused. I didn't really know. It was odd having to explain why you've changed when you didn't even know. It was like a gifted prodigy who just knew how to play piano explaining how he managed to play Mozart. "...might be that I've realized she's not the horrible, uncaring woman I thought she'd be. I thought she didn't care for anyone other than herself and maybe her family. But she was having what seemed a nightmare and she wanted her family."

"And what about your grudge over your parents at her?" His eye had the look as if he was seeing through me, sifting through memories and any thoughts I might have ever had, cataloging me. I dropped my eyes to the side, observing the couch.

"I don't know about that yet. But I know it isn't as bad as before." I looked up at him again. He was smiling.

"You always were a pushover." He sat down next to me on the couch, looking out the front window. It was a large half-circle filtering in light and spilling it on the rug. It made the afternoon feel as if there was more than less than half an hour left to figure out how to keep Bulma away.

"We could move back to Japan, you know." I glanced at him. "That'd keep him away." I reached into the left breast pocket of my jacket, shaking out a cigarette and a lighter. "Do you mind?"

"No," Arturo said. "I used to smoke cigars and cigarettes myself."

"Not now?"

"No." He flicked his ponytail over his shoulder. "And to answer your suggestion, that wouldn't work. They're bigger than us. And what do you do when you're a big syndicate?" He waited for me to light the cigarette before looking at me expectantly.

"Expand." I breathed in the fumes, exhaling and watching the blue smoke snake around. They were killing me, but they were almost graceful in a way to watch.

"Yep." He folded his hands behind his head, sighing with a smile. "So...in a way, we're stuck."

"The States wasn't exactly my number one choice. If I knew I was going to be stuck, I would've chosen California." Arturo laughed.

"No, warm places are horrible. You remember I'm Russian, don't you?"

I nodded, sucking on the cigarette once more. "But you've lived out of Russia for a long time. A majority of your accent's gone. Maybe you've learned to like warmer places instead of being used to the cold?"

"No, I still favor the cold." A comfortable silence passed through us. After a while, a line of birdsong broke it.

"What if we kill Dilion when he comes to collect her?"

Arturo seemed to regard this option with a fair amount of seriousness. A full minute passed before he replied. "No. He's a fairly big guy in his organization. He's probably got a wire or camera." He made eye contact with me briefly. "Anything we would do in this situation, they would do."

"Like the Veronica Compact?" Arturo's face darkened. After I thought he would give daggers at me through his lone eye, he kept his eye trained on the bird that had landed on a tree outside. Even if he had no neighborhood or families to watch, the blank landscape was beautifully calming with a natural presence. Several minutes passed with both of us observing the landscape. Then he broke it.

"Yes. Like the Veronica Compact."

"I'm sorry for bringing it up-"

"It's fine. I need to get over it. I fucked up, that's all. I've learned from it." He sighed. He placed his hands back down to his thighs. "I do miss her, though."

"You tried your best. There was no way we could have known they planned to-"

"But I should have checked." I watched as he massaged his temple, hunched forward, eye trained on the carpet. "I should have taken precautions. I thought about getting her back, thinking I would have a chance to love a woman. What might happen once she was out." He went silent.

"That's natural," I said, though careful. Any wrong word could be like falling through ice and making him either stop talking about it or yelling. "It's not your fault."

"But she looked...she looked like she wanted to help so bad. She never had that look. She-"

A shout upstairs cut off the conversation. I looked at Arturo, willing for eye contact. He didn't relinquish it. I got up, taking another puff on the cigarette. I went toward the stairs, going up them. The look of Arturo's melancholic stare at the floor was stuck in my head. Was he depressed over it? He'd had an okay life up until now, but something like that would crush any man, no matter how well off they were. The sound of something hitting the floor made my body jerk in alarm and break my thoughts. Seizure? Heart attack? Sickness? No, the logical part of my brain said. Just check on her.

I slowly opened the door, only a crack. Bulma was gone from her bed. The sheets were sliding off the bed. Everything else was in fact, however. Nothing broken, no blood...but still no Bulma.

Now how much would it suck if we lost her again? I thought. I opened it a little wider, seeing the window was closed. A butterfly perched on the windowsill. Still no Bulma.

I took out one knife. If she planned to make a stand here, I wouldn't kill her. I would try not to cut her. I took a step forward, paused, put the knife away. She'd already lost enough blood. I couldn't afford to have her lose even more by an accidental prick. I prodded the door open with the toe of my shoe, seeing it open slowly. No Bulma.

I stepped forward, glanced behind the door, and proceeded. Her room came with its own bathroom, but the light was off and there was no sign of life in there. My best bet was on the other side of the bed where the sheets slanted off to.

I leaned forward to check, and voilà, there she was. Unconscious or asleep, didn't matter. She was alive and in my sight. I realized that I was biting lightly down on the cigarette in my mouth and ignored it. There was no use in stopping it - I would go right back to it.

I opened my mouth to ask if she was alright, then closed it. Some part of me wanted to stay quiet. Maybe it was the surreal feel of the golden sun on the white sheets she was wrapped up in, making it seem like a murder discovered on the same day.

The sheets shook. One foot poked out from the edge of the sheet. The outline of an arm tugged the sheet around her. I took the cigarette out and placed it on the dresser, careful to angle it away from the wood and not to put it out - I was running low on cigarettes, and I had a feeling that I wouldn't have much an opportunity to buy a pack. As I set it down, it occurred to me how badly I was stalling. She's not dead, so why am I unnerved?

The answer mewled at me from the back of my mind, but I hated the answer too much to recognize it. It was ignored and sent to the back.

I silently counted down from ten, turning back to the sheet-wrapped Bulma Briefs. Counting down made me think back to junior year, counting down to something I wanted to do, but I didn't want to do at the same time. Counting down to cut off my ties to the world.

That thought made me stop. My brain was scolding me with high notes of distaste. I only had so much time before Dilion came. And here I was, stalling more than a 50 year old car that had a corroded engine. No countdown this time. No mental prep. Just grab her. I bent down, kneeling next to her.

And I picked her up.

Except the moment I did, she shot forward like a bullet, her blue eyes wide open and a deeper blue than usual. As if on cue, a fact I'd read somewhere came forward and occupied my thought in one-fifth of a second: blue eyes turned darker when crying.

Then pain registered in mine nervous system. A hollow sound resulted as both our heads collided, hard enough to send us both sprawling onto the floor. A few black spots flew about my vision, but quickly dissipated. I held a hand to my forehead, hearing a loud wince.

"What the FUCK?!" Yes, Bulma was conscious. Great. Cursing was just exactly what I wanted to hear. "What is your skull MADE out of?! Did you lose a chunk of that brain in your drunk driving accident too?"

"No," I mumbled. "Are you alright?"

"Am I alright? FUCK NO! I think I felt my skull CRACK OPEN!" I rolled my eyes as she rubbed her forehead in front of me. A small tear pricked at the corner of her eye from the pain.

"You didn't crack your skull. It would've made a loud crack instead of a hollow clock."

"Clock?" she snapped.

"Yes...? As in when your fist clocks something?" She stared at me with dissatisfaction. Silence went through until I got up and retrieved my cigarette. It was burning low. I took a large drag of it then let it out. I went to the dresser and opened the third dresser, seeing an ashtray. I pressed the stub out on the ceramic, then tossed it into the wastebasket. The ashtray remained on the dresser.

I turned back to her, watching her rub her eyes. "Why were you on the floor instead of the bed, anyway?" I asked. Bulma adopted a glaring but upset look.

"Nightmare," she said meekly. "Now can I please have an ice pack?"

"What was the nightmare about?" I asked, deciding to get the pack afterwards. I took note on how she still had that pale complexion, the blood loss still imminent. At this rate, she would faint easily from any number of exertions. Yet she still held herself high with the tongue of a snake.

"None of your business." She crossed her arms. The defiant feel was lost with her still sitting on the floor, me looking down at her.

"How are your stitches holding up?" I asked in an attempt to refresh the conversation.

"How's your cut holding up?" She inquired back. I touched the bandage on my neck, an uncomfortable swallow resulting involuntarily.

"I'm going to assume you don't want to talk."

She shook her head. "I don't." I nodded.

"I'll leave you be. But get some rest, alright?" She did not speak an answer or indicate a nod, but she carefully got up as to not upset the stitching. She sat on the bed.

She sighed. "I do want to go home. If you've nothing to do with me, let me go. You've got the money." She gestured around her to supply her reason. "Why keep me anymore when you have no gain?"

"We're not trying to keep you," I replied. "Things are...complicated," I said out of habit.

"Are you always so vague when you're stressed?"

"I'm not stressed," I replied. "Just...worried. Um...how about that ice pack, yes?" I pulled a smile, but she only stared.

"Fine...and be quick. It's throbbing." I nodded and left the room. The butterfly was gone.

...

I stepped heavily down the stairs, my body exhausted for a reason I couldn't pin. It occurred to me that I hadn't had great sleep in a while - one night up because of Bulma, the next being slapped awake early in the morning. I sighed. I was already craving tobacco again, but I forced myself to ignore it. Two sharp but light knocks on the wood made me jump mentally and physically out of my tired spell.

Arturo walked across the hall. By glance, it looked as if there was a small ink stain on the right side of his shirt, but a glance was all I could make. He was walking briskly, redoing his hair up in his signature low ponytail.

"Is it Dilion?" All I got in answer was a grunt. I looked ahead and he took a hair tie out of his mouth.

"Yes," he called. "Where is Bulma? Conscious?"

"Pissed off with an ice pack, yes. She was about to take a nap-"

"She needs to be out quicker than that. I don't need her panicking." His hand shot out to a small dresser next to the door that also served as a table with a vase of flowers on it. His fingers locked around something, and I saw it was a small gun. He finished with his hair and checked the magazine, nodded, and tucked it in the waist band of his slacks at the small of his back, his shirt over it. "Knock her out, choke her until she passes out from lack of oxygen, something!" He shouted, opening the door.

I was about to call after him when I saw the picture of strength in front of Arturo, next to him a man oozing mercilessness. I turned back to the stairs, trying to think of the least painful way to get her under.

I froze and ducked into the bathroom just as the imaginary light bulb lit above my head.

...

The lightning crack of a gun's discharge sounded. My arm jerked midway of picking up Bulma's limp body, at least four sleeping pills in her system.

God, if you exist - and some part of me still doesn't believe that, and, to be honest, I won't after this - please do not let her share a bed with Michael Jackson.

Her head laid on my chest, her skin the color of milk - no, paler than that - and cold. Her lips were a very light shade of pink, a large contrast from the red I was accustomed to seeing from her. I couldn't stop thinking about how I was the one that brought her here, I was the one who caused such a dramatic blood loss. She seemed to feel lighter as well, probably due to the fact that she hasn't had an adequate meal since the café when we'd first arrived. Arturo and I were lucky enough to have had a light breakfast, but Bulma had gotten beaten around too much for us to think of her hunger. Scolding myself mentally, I shifted her weight onto my left shoulder, hoping the indention of metal wouldn't hurt her.

I adjusted her ice pack and hit the last step on the stairs, walking briskly. What was I supposed to do with her in this situation? Walk around aimlessly?

Get your ass in gear, Diez, I told myself. Figure it out. What would you do to hide someone from a ruthless syndicate wanting to harm them? Well...even the mental pep talk didn't help. I was at a loss. Then I heard Arturo snarl in pain outside. My grip tightened on Bulma, a murmur resulting from her. I could feel blood leaving my face, taking a paler colour. I was in the middle of the house, and Arturo was outside - that meant it was not much a snarl, but a scream of pain.

I thought about putting Bulma down and going to help Arturo, but thought against it. We didn't know how many people were out there, people who could come in and take her.

But what makes you think you can take on all of those people? My conscience asked, musing.

"No fucking clue," I said, a slight stutter rising from my speech out of panic. We were most likely outnumbered, Arturo was in pain, I can't help him without putting Bulma down, which is something I do not have the ability to do. I began to think that we should just hand her over when Arturo slammed through the window to my left, slamming onto the floor. He landed on his left leg, a sharp and sickening crack sounding, followed by a scream of pain. His small gun flew from his hands under the couch.

"Augustine, what the fuck are you doing?!" He shouted, a hand on his calf. He groaned, blood dripping from his forehead and behind his eye patch. "Do something with her!"

"But if I hide her, someone could come in and-"

"FUCK THAT!" He roared, his eye shooting daggers at me. "We're not letting that happen! Set her down and help me out!" I did so quickly, setting her behind the couch to avoid bullets or knives, whatever came first.

I knelt next to Arturo, seeing that his leg was twisted in a way that made me uncomfortable. "You're not going to be walking well for a while," I said.

"I know that! Get my knives, gun, SOMETHING," he ordered, breathing heavy through the pain. The way he was blinking revealed that he was most likely just holding on. I nodded and sprinted to his room. Small shards of glass crackled under my shoes until I got to the stairs and up to his room, looking through his drawers. I hesitated when I saw a bottle of medication, then tossed it to the side. Whatever it was for, he wouldn't need them at the moment, but something about it made my skin crawl. I told myself just to stop thinking about it, and eventually I did. But not as quickly as I needed to be.

I saw his pack of knives, complete with throwing knives and hand-to-hand combat ones. I quickly returned, letting him equip himself.

"You're going to have to fight outside," he said through gritted teeth.

"There has to be a better way to protect her. We're outnumbered-"

"This is our only option!" He yelled. "Now get out there!" I began to protest when I heard several bullets fired through a silencer outside. One flew through the window, but outside most of the bullets resulted in shouts of pain. Friendly fire, I thought with a chill.

Arturo nodded at me and I made my way outside. I glanced back at him and saw that he was beginning to slump over from the amount of extreme pain. I exhaled and forced myself over the crunching glass and out the door. It was complete havoc outside.

Next to the road was a black Corvette with a red stripe down the middle, engine still running. Multiple bodies either dead or unconscious littered the lawn, not one without a mark of blood. Multiple bodies had a knife in the dead center of their forehead, others with knives resting in sheaths of their chests. Discarded guns originally owned by the bodies lay in the grass, a couple of knives that I could bet were Arturo's in the mix. A bullet whizzed past my head, close enough to whistle through my white hair. My eyes locked on the gunman with the intent to kill, then froze.

"What are YOU doing here?!" I exclaimed, relief and surprise flooding through me. There stood the man I'd known since fourth grade, his black hair stuck to his face from sweat and his icy blue eyes piercing. He held a gun equipped with a silencer, most likely the one that was firing the bullets I assumed were friendly fire. His shirt had small spots of blood, most likely from others instead of himself.

"Augustine?!" Desmond said with the same amount of shock. "Oh fuck, I just SHOT at you. Sorry." A man from behind him bolted up with the agility of a tiger, slamming the butt of his pistol down on Desmond's temple, but not as hard as he'd wanted. Desmond slammed his arm against the man's shoulder. The stranger kicked Desmond as he turned, making him hit the grass.

"What are you doing?" A female voice called. I turned and saw she was attempting to take on a different person, a friend of Desmond's or a traitor. She fired a bullet into their head and stared at Desmond's attacker. "TOM!" She shouted.

"What?!" The man named Tom shouted from the grass where Desmond had flipped him, attempting to get his gun aimed anywhere on Desmond's body.

"Quit fooling around with him!" Her hair was red, long and pulled up into a high ponytail with red turning to yellow in the middle, the yellow turning to pink at the tips. Eccentric hair, I thought. Then I flipped a knife out of my left pocket, throwing it straight to her throat.

She locked eyes with me last second, throwing up the last weapon I expected in this fight. My eyes widened with both shock and slight anxiety. She was wielding a katana.

"This is not the Walking Dead, lady!" Desmond shouted, burying a bullet in Tom's leg finally with some large amount of luck. Tom roared in pain, but didn't falter in trying to get a bullet in the man's chest.

I started to go to help Desmond, but froze when I saw Katana Woman bolting towards me. She was on me before I thought she would, my defense put up too late. I hit the grass, seeing her katana change to a smaller dagger. I started to speak, but stopped when she forced her dagger down, hard.

I kicked her off, taking the dagger out of my left arm. Either she didn't know metal didn't feel pain or that I had a prosthetic, because she looked a little freaked out as I threw her dagger in the grass, kicking it away. She began to look around for the knife I had thrown, but I was upon her before she could find it.

The blade dragged across her neck, blood making a heavy trail down the left side of her neck down to the grass. I slight frown tugged at the corner of my lips, but I was interrupted by a gun shot behind me. I stood, unable to check for a pulse - but then again, her neck was slit now. She would bleed out immediately.

"Where is Dilion?" I murmured, looking around as I made my way to Desmond and Tom. "He's got to be somewhere nearby, watching this..."

"FUCK!" The shout was Desmond's, Tom laughing almost hysterically.

"Finally, you weird-eyed fuck!" Blood stained the front lower part of Desmond's shirt, the white tainted with the crimson. "Finally fuckin' shot you! How's it feel?!"

Desmond fired a shot into his head, blood spurting with bits of brain and skin blowing off. A myriad of blood and gore joined the crimson mess on his shirt that could only be described as a piece of the wardrobe of a murderer. He looked away, not queasy at the sight, but not comfortable with it. A hand was over his wound, his breathing heavy. It made me think of Arturo - did he have any bullets in him? How many cuts? I promised myself to check as soon as I was inside. For now, Desmond would bleed out if we didn't get in the large house.

"I don't know if the bullet exited," Desmond murmured. I glanced at his back, seeing there was no hole.

"No," I said painfully. That meant there was going to be much more pain for him. But it had to get out. Desmond nodded. He knew the procedure of bullets, though his nod was not without a disappointed grimace.

"Okay. We gotta get inside. Whoever sent these fuckers are probably not happy." I nodded and together we walked past the multitude of bodies, blood staining the bright green in the afternoon sun.

...

"Gentle, GENTLE!" His back arched as he gripped the bed, in the throes of pain. "I regret it! I should have NEVER asked you to do this!" He shouted.

"I'm not a certified doctor," I said calmly, seeing Arturo force Desmond's chest down for me. The gunman ran a hand through his onyx hair, most likely on the verge of tears.

"If I did this, it would've taken TWO FUCKING SECONDS!"

"Who's the idiot who wasn't watching the gun?" I countered. "And the bullet is in pretty deep. It's hard to get to."

"You aren't even at the BULLET YET?!" His voice had a desperate ring to it. "Fuck, fuck, fuck!"

"Stop cursing," I scolded. "Calm down. You're worse than me with pain-"

"Do YOU have a bullet in you?! Didn't fucking THINK SO!" He started to sit up to flip me the bird, but Arturo practically smacked him down. Finally seeing the bullet, I maneuvered the tweezers and fished it out of his flesh with a roar of pain from Desmond.

"It would've been easier if we just dug through your back," I said. "It was almost sitting next to the skin." I tossed the blood-covered bullet in the waste basket. Desmond slowly regained his normal breathing, his hands at his temples and massaging them.

"Never, ever again. Never. Neverrr," he slurred through pain. "I will never trust you. And I will never not do anything medical to myself without any morphine. That was fucking ridiculous."

"Get over it," I stated. "You have to set his leg. He's in horrible pain, but do you see him bitching?" Desmond stared at my use of profanity with shock. He shook his head. "Then please let us bandage it and you'll get some painkillers."

"Isn't it kind of weird they're not sending anyone else?" Arturo said as if he hadn't heard any of our exchange. I nodded in response, propping Desmond up. His tan skin was warm, but not warm enough for fever. It would've been problematic if infection had set in that fast and that dramatically. I took note that he was still toned, but not enough to be called built with a small hint of jealousy. I was about the same level of toned, but I didn't have the tan skin that made it look more attractive. I pushed it away. It didn't matter anyway.

Arturo inspected Desmond curiosity. "Aren't you a prude? Shouldn't you be freaking out over being shirtless?"

Desmond glared at the assassin. "Shut up. I was in pain. I didn't really notice...until now. When can I have my shirt back?"

"You studied in medicine, idiot," I said, unpacking a roll of ace bandages and the material that goes underneath it, ignoring his second question. "You know it has to be disinfected and dressed. I looked up to see the colour draining incredibly fast from his face.

"That's going to fucking sting." I nodded. "And...You have to rub it in really good..." Another nod.. "And...it has to be stitched...and...oh fuck, there's no morphine." One more nod. He began to seem faint. "Oh Jesus fucking crispies."

...

Desmond pulled on a fresh shirt, the white gauze disappearing under the button-up white shirt Arturo allowed him to borrow. "You know, I don't really think you guys learned the penalty of wearing white. I just got shot, and that left a pretty bad stain in it. Just sayin'."

"And?" Arturo said. "If you get shot or stabbed, it also leaves a hole. And I am not going to sew or pay to have it sewed when I have tons of button-ups in my closet for work. I could care less if you keep it." That closed the discussion.

The room we were in had the faint set of blood and disinfecting alcohol, but none of us really minded. Bulma was in a chair that was dragged up, a comfy one that was originally in the living room. She was slowly regaining color, but not by much. The silence slowly leaked to the attention of Arturo's leg, still bent oddly in shape.

"Okay...since you're certified - a license but not practicing - in medical fields, you can set his leg correctly, right? To where he won't have a limp?" I asked.

Desmond glanced to where Arturo was patiently sitting next to the bed on the floor. Originally he was on the bed to help hold the gunman down, but he'd moved. "Yeah...but it's going to hurt like a bitch."

"Language," I said absently, and neither of the two replied. Desmond approached Arturo, kneeling, but winced. Stitches were put in, but they were recent and raw, added points for lack of painkillers and morphine. He mouthed his favorite word, and I was inclined to inform him of his language, but refrained knowing he would brush it aside.

Arturo seemed calm, but the breathing that raised and lowered his chest was not at all calm. Desmond's eyes flickered to Arturo's, then down to his leg. He gently put his hands on the side of his leg. Just that much made Arturo groan. "Have you ever had to have a limb set?" He asked calmly.

Arturo nodded. "Yes...but that doesn't mean I'll ever like it." He gave a nervous laugh. "Let this be quick, okay?"

"I'll try my best, buddy. Your bone got popped out of place from your knee, and that bone is fractured. So...this is going to hurt because one, setting is always really fuckin' painful; two, that bone is fractured, and I'm putting a lot of pressure on it that may further break it; and finally, three, you have nothing to numb the pain. Want some bark to bite on, old buddy?"

"How about something other than bark? I don't want to accidentally bite off my tongue from pain." He glanced to me and I nodded through slight laughter. "What?"

"Nothing...just imagining you freaking out over your tongue. Anyway, I think the best you're going to get is a washcloth." Arturo nodded and I left to get it. As I walked back, I heard a shout of pain.

"-hurt a lot," I heard. It was Desmond speaking.

"What was that?" I asked.

"Well, I put a small bit of pressure next to his kneecap, and...that supposedly hurt like hell. This is going to get really, really bad. Try not to black out from pain, buddy." Desmond smiled weakly. Arturo did not smile back. I handed him the washcloth. It was barely in his mouth before Desmond snapped the bone into place. Arturo was awake for only three seconds before going under.

...

The sun dipped below the horizon with no other people coming to invade Arturo's place. Desmond and I had pondered and discussed reasons why that might have been for a whole before just forgetting it altogether. Arturo and Bulma were both asleep in the upstairs guest room, the same one Bulma had slept in before she fell over the bed in a bundle of sheets and interrupted the conversation Arturo and I had.

While they slept, Desmond and I took responsibility of attempting to make the yard look at least a little tidy. Desmond's stitches came out only once when he'd fallen over a body outside, collecting knives and guns to lock them up, but they were quickly replaced.

"The bodies?" Desmond posed, looking out the window, the same one Arturo had been flung through. A light breeze from outside breathed in. Both of us were in the living room, finished from sweeping up the glass from the window. The area had suddenly gotten as cold as winter, as if the amount of death on the lawn outside brought along the cold winter for us to think about what we'd done. We'd lit the fire to counter that cold, and the fire flickered in Desmond's eyes in a way that chilled me, in a way the wind could not. It had been eerily silent between the both of us for a while now, as if thoughts were threatening to swallow us up without a word exchanged to one another.

"Not sure," I replied. "Arturo's decision. It's his property."

Desmond's eyes were trained on the orange flames licking up the wood now. His hands were wrapped around a bright red Thermos, suffocating the shining metal. His face had adopted a stressed, tense look of a doctor prompting life support to a family member. "I'm worried about the guy. I really am." His voice had dropped to a thick but smooth level, like heavy silk. That tone was the tone of a man who'd rehearsed the words he was speaking in his head numerous times. "He has that same...spaced out but still there look in his eyes, like-" he hesitated, took a breath, then resumed, "-like the look you had in junior year before you tried suicide."

A light stab sounded in my chest, but not a foreign one. The flash of a bottle of pills danced behind my eyes, the small dots of what looked like gray ink on his white shirt accompanying. Silence covered and smothered us in a blanket of dark satin, beautiful but unwanted. "He's been like this for a while. Ever since the-"

"-Veronica Compact," he finished. "I've been told a bit about it. Some girl who...I think killed herself?"

I shook my head. "No...she was a woman that Arturo ended up falling in love with. He never got the courage to court her, but it was obvious she loved him back."

"Ah, damn, this is a sad love story."

I nodded. "About a week or so before he planned to actually tell her, she just...disappeared. She was gone for over a year. Arturo grew desperate while searching for her, causing the biggest amount of assignments in our branch to be created. He wanted anyone who he thought knew her dead or questioned."

"Did he seriously like her THAT much? Or is he one of those guys who, once they fall in love, they're crazy about them?"

"No. They were just...really compatible. One of those couples that would still love each other until they're old and frail." My gaze dropped to the carpet, an unreasoned sadness hugging at my chest. "This sounds like one of those cliché love stories, doesn't it?"

Desmond laughed, though it was forced and choked. "Yeah...what happened to her?" His ghostly blue eyes were trained on me now. I didn't have to look up to know - his eyes were easy to feel.

"Arturo finally found her, captured by an opposing syndicate - the one who sent those agents. That syndicate is famous in our branch because Arturo got extremely pissed at them. He had already had beef with them, but this was like butchering your family to him."

"What syndicate?" He asked. I sighed and shook my head.

"I can't say. Arturo genuinely believes that if you say the name, bad luck comes. That's how much he hates this syndicate. And the syndicate doesn't broadcast their name, and Arturo likes it that way. Just like we don't tell ours that often." Desmond nodded, but it was a nod that showed he disliked the answer, yet he gestured for me to go on. "Anyway, Arturo went alone to their big estate. He was paranoid that they'd tortured or traumatized her...and they were right. He found her beaten for reasons he doesn't know or won't share. No one knows why she was there - but what we do know is that Arturo went on a massive killing spree in that estate. He almost got to the CEO, but he was gunned down. Then the CEO decided to mess with Arturo by saying they would hand her over."

"Oh, bullshit."

"Pretty much." I smiled bitterly. "They let Arturo leave with several bullets in his system. People in my branch like to gossip that he'd walked out confidently as if he didn't feel any of the bullets because he's had so much adrenaline in his system.

"While Arturo recovered, Veronica was released to her own nice house. The syndicate kept a close eye on her for a while, sort of waiting for Arturo to recover. When he did, about two weeks later, he was so compelled to find her that he didn't think about the syndicate's reason for letting her go. He wasn't given an address or anything, so it would be difficult to search for her, and he wanted her found. He was halfway out the door before a friend of mine forced him back by his collar. That friend got a hard punch to the jaw."

"Jeez...love is freakin' dope."

"Don't talk like that," I said. "...But yes, I suppose it is a little overpowering. Anyway...we finally made him get at least a few people to come with him, even though he insisted this was personal business of his."

"Did you get to go?" Desmond tapped the red Thermos. I glanced at his eyes, seeing that previously tense look, just restrained to his ice blue eyes that looked like they glowed in the dark. His face was stressed, but his voice was level and conversational.

"No. Well...I was late. Really late. I was at an assignment...when I'd arrived, I still had a blood stain in my jacket." I smiled with a small bit of humor, but not much. "Anyway...when they arrived, the whole block was silent. Dead quiet. No birdsong, no kids playing in the warm spring. It was as if the syndicate itself had bribed every living thing to be still. They drove down the street, wondering which one she stayed at, and Arturo suddenly shouted at Fred - the driver, also a friend of mine - to stop in front of a small blue house."

"He just knew she was there?" He took a sip from his Thermos. He wouldn't tell me what was inside when he was filling it, but I guessed it was some sort of alcohol from the jolt he'd had. He never handled alcohol well; a violent drunk never is. I made a mental note to tell him to tone down.

"I suppose. I'm not too sure." I crossed my arms, zipping up my jacket as the wind started to nip at me. "As if on cue, the door opened and there she was. Arturo was halfway out of the car, ignoring the precautions given by his associates. Then that's when I'd arrived. When I pulled up, there were tears in both of their eyes. It was a moment that made you feel hopeful."

"But where the fuck is this syndicate? They didn't just hand her over, right? I mean, I've heard of this syndicate from my branch, or at least I believe I have. And from what I heard, they aren't too keen on giving away what they can gain from. And fucking up an important figure in our own syndicate is kind of a huge gain."

"Be quiet and listen. Arturo had gotten on the lawn before he was shot in the leg from someone we couldn't see. We assume a sniper. Anyway, when he hit the dirt, Veronica had done the thing anyone would do in her place when they see someone they love shot."

Desmond pondered for a moment, a look that made me stop. "This story's about to end, I can feel it." His eyes were downcast on the carpet painted with moonlight. He raised the Thermos to his lips, taking a long drink. His hands were shaking gently, the same shake when you're in the snow awhile.

"Obviously everyone that had come with Arturo came out to help him. Fred was shot dead on the spot by the same person who shot Arturo. Through the chest. I managed to only get a bullet in my left arm. Not really effective." I laughed. I didn't pause for any comments from Desmond. "All of it happened so quickly. The firing of bullets just as Veronica stepped on the third square of the house's walkway. No one in the neighborhood came out of their houses. If was as if everyone had left because the syndicate wanted to put on a play in their neighborhood."

"Look at you, pulling out your similes," Desmond murmured. "A grim one at that...what about Arturo and Veronica?"

"...Well..." A memory of a loud bang, a discharge louder than any of the ones before. In the blur of movement I was doing to dodge a bullet, a spray of crimson I'd grown so accustomed was nothing other than blood. The moment when Arturo-

"Hey." Desmond was locking eyes with me once more, his firelight blue-orange scarier than ever. "What's up?"

"Nothing," I said simply.

"You looked like you were thinking about something unpleasant."

"That's true. The next part is unpleasant..." I swallowed, my throat suddenly dry. "I don't remember the exact visual of it, as I was in the midst of dodging the onslaught of bullets and trying to find the sniper, but..." I hesitated. How did a person portray a moment in someone else's life when it just crumbled? When a person you love is killed before you in your moment of hope...how do you describe that when you just witnessed it second-hand?

"...but I heard a very close fire of a gun. It was deafening, even if I've heard my share of firearms. All of us stopped, even the sniper. That was when I saw the spray of blood. It was a clean shot through the head, no chance of just paralyzing her. It was pretty gruesome, seeing her arms outstretched to Arturo to help him, and then bam, you're shot through the head."

"Yeah...that does sound like it would suck...I'm pretty sure Arturo was trashed, huh?" His eyes were downcast to the fire once more. The wind blowing through the window grew harsher. I glanced in the direction of the stairs, afraid I'd see Arturo would be standing there, hand on the banister and smiling. Yes, I was wrecked, he'd say. Oh fuck, we didn't mean any harm, we'd say. So on, so on, movie cliché.

I turned back to the fire, a chill sweeping through my body. "Yes, he was a wreck. When she fell to the ground, he got up and charged the guy that shot Veronica despite the bullet in his leg. Dripped the gun halfway through his sprint. Slit his throat and let him bleed out. Then..."

I sighed. Desmond rose a brow. "Then he lashed out at everyone?"

"No. He...just crumbled. He leaned against the door frame, just...shoulders shaking like he was having a seizure and his knife next him. The only sound was a knife being thrown to end the sniper once he was spotted in the silence. It was an emotional spectacle, seeing Arturo slump to the ground after everything he'd been known for. He just...doesn't cry."

"Did he...hug Veronica or anything?"

"No. He was broken, but not irrational," I was about to say 'yet', but refrained from it, "and all he did was cry. We all went over to Arturo, and one of the four he brought along carried Veronica away. He's not a hugger, but the second I put a hand on his shoulder as I sat next to him, he pulled me into a bear hug. He had slipped into Russian, cursing, speaking things I didn't understand, but also saying "why Veronica?" through tears." I felt a small lump in my throat at the memory, the memory of how hard he gripped me to him, how badly he was shaking, how cold he was.

"How do you know he was saying that? You don't know Russian. Did he tell you?"

"I looked it up. He never brought up that vulnerable moment, nor does he ever bring up the Veronica Compact. It's only if someone else brings it up...and even then, he's very short about it."

"How long ago was this?" Desmond rubbed his left eye with the heel of his hand. I looked over and saw the piercing blue was laced with mist.

"About five years into my employment, so...about 12 years ago...why are you crying?"

"I'm not!" he insisted. He set his Thermos on the coffee table, a tear dripping down his cheek from the eye he hadn't wiped. "I...I don't know! I'm allergic to gin and vodka!"

"That's what's in the Thermos?" I laughed. "Gin and vodka?"

"That's all he had, okay?!" He leaned over the arm of the couch and wiped his eyes. "And...I'm crying because I feel bad for the dude." He sniffed, composing himself as he spoke. "It sounds so fictional. Like...something you'd read in some fanfiction," he murmured.

"Well...those bizarre things happen to people in our careers." I fished my carton of cigarettes out of the breast pocket of the jacket, taking one out and replacing the carton for a lighter, lit it, replaced it. Only one cigarette left after this. Silence floated with the wind, smothering the conversation.

"Why is he not over it even a little?" Desmond asked, removing the hold of quiet. "I mean...I get that it's a traumatic experience, but..."

"He's never loved someone before." I took a drag of the cigarette, enjoying the nicotine after several hours without it. "And when you love someone as deeply as he loved her, they haunt your mind. Especially when you know you could have saved them."

"...I don't think that love is easy to come by." Desmond sniffed again, but the tears were drying up. He took a large drink of his gin and vodka.

"Maybe someday you will." I shrugged. "No one knows." Desmond nodded and only the light chirping of crickets.

"They can come back anytime, you know," Desmond commented. "That syndicate."

"Cibola has a lot of people...enough to dispatch at least twenty and be comfortable. Not a dent in numbers. I'm surprised they haven't hit us again while we're recovering."

"You never know. It could always happen...Cibola? Is that the syndicate's name?" I nodded. "This wind is getting real fucking annoying."

"If you'd like to tape a blanket over it, be my guest."

Desmond shook his head. "No. Waste of ti-"

Glass shattered and a scream arose from upstairs. It was Bulma. I smothered my cigarette into an ashtray.

Both of us looked at each other and stood, sprinting upstairs. The scream was growing fainter, despite the fact that we were getting closer. Desmond pulled the door open, taking out his gun and pressing down on the trigger.

The room was empty other than Arturo. The glass was broken in the window where I'd seen the butterfly. "Oh shit."

"She's gone," I murmured. The bed was empty and bare, the sheets thrown on the floor. Arturo still lay asleep on the chair we'd dragged up for him to sleep on. I went to the window, only seeing the daunting night and open field. The same cold breeze began flying into the window. Soon this house would be full of holes, that wind of death filling it with the sweet smell of grass. "They took her."

Desmond went silent.