Hey there... still working on this - don't let the lack of updates fool you. That goes for AQOF too, for those of you who're waiting. I'm not promising updates will be frequent, but I promise they will continue ;)
As far as understanding the plot goes, just hang in there. I know it's confusing, but it will (hopefully) continue to become more clear... but if you're looking for a clear and straightforward plot - you're reading the wrong fic! Lol...
Enjoy! Let me know what you think J
Part Three
Inhale.
Crunch.
Exhale.
Crackle.
She is convinced she can hear the grass as it bends and breaks beneath her feet. She steps slowly and deliberately, careful to avoid such noises.
Her caution proves ineffective as the sounds echo ceaselessly in her head.
Inhale.
Crunch.
Exhale.
Crackle.
She attempts stealth and succeeds. The villains never hear the sounds that rattle in her mind.
The man stands with his back to her, shifting his weight from foot to foot. It appears his focus is dwindling. Too many hours on the job.
As she watches him fidget, she imagines the cold hard steel of the gun held tightly in her hand. Though she cannot feel it through her glove, the illusion strengthens her. She wills herself to steel. Cold. Hard. Unbending.
Closing her eyes, she pulls the trigger.
Sight is no longer a necessity. She knows she will hit her target.
The bullet pierces his skin, liberating a stream of sticky red. A breathy gasp escapes his lips and finds its way to her ears, trapping itself within the confines of her mind.
He crashes to the ground with an earsplitting thud as the final ounces of life melt from his body and seep into the earth below. She imagines his liberated soul. It's fidgeting.
Two years ago she stopped using tranq darts. Too expensive. The enemy's bullets are much more accessible.
Luckily, that was right around the time she stopped valuing life. Hers or theirs.
Somewhere in the mess she became a scavenger. A wild animal. A beast.
Removing the gun from her fallen foe, she holsters her own. Waste not, want not.
Two more men go down.
Two steps closer to tonight's goal.
…
A memorial service was held. Or so she imagined.
They were long gone by the time the flames had died out.
As they drove away from their lives, she wondered about the people she was leaving behind.
Francie and Will would grieve. Perhaps they were the only ones who would. But they would soon learn to get by without her. Everyone moves on in time.
Her father would harden again. His shell would simply thicken. What doesn't kill him makes him stronger. Makes him less human.
Dixon would believe she died a traitor. He was a hero for turning her in. Marshall would likely believe the same.
Perhaps that was the most tragic part. The smartest men she'd ever known had been duped.
Sloane. Sloane would suffer like no one had suffered. She would see to that.
…
She wraps her fingers around the knob and turns it easily. Either they were expecting her, or never imagined she would come. Two distinctly different possibilities.
Prepared for either, she enters the room, moving like a whisper. A ghost.
The office is typically modern. The hum of the florescent lights competes with the buzz of the monitor, aching to be silenced.
She needs not disturb her surroundings. The file sits patiently upon the desk. She slips it into her bag and turns to leave.
As she nears the door, she stops and turns back. Though the cry of a human has little effect, she finds it hard to refuse the pleas of inanimate objects. With the butt of her gun she smashes the screen.
She leaves the way she came, sidestepping the bodies she has relieved of the burden of living.
Her gun is down at her side. She knows she cleared her path well.
Too late she remembers she knows nothing.
An ambitious guard comes early for his shift and finds her path of destruction.
The metal lodges in her shoulder with a burning thud. She feels the sound echo through her body. The sensation is not of pain, but pressure.
She hears the blood ooze out the newly formed outlet, like water trickling down a window pane.
Inhale.
Drip.
Exhale.
Drop.
The pattern calms her. The cacophony awakens her senses.
Contrasting feelings of pressure and release begin to overwhelm her.
She smiles, content to be feeling.
Her reverie is broken by the shrill sound of her name.
Blinking, she clears the film that has formed over her eyes, revealing the offending guard lying in a pool of his own blood.
A hand is on her arm.
Another day of living.
…
She opens the door and a sea of yellow washes over her. Mustard yellow. Dirty yellow.
The carpet, the bedding, the curtains. The stench.
She feels a rush of nausea but manages to abate it.
"I think we'll need an air freshener," he attempts to smile.
She laughs quietly and emptily.
Finding her feet, she walks to the bed and perches on the end. She looks at the closet.
The realization that she has no possessions restores the unsettled feeling.
He crosses the room, his face a mix of determination and despair. He settles beside her.
"I'll sleep on the floor," he says after a moment.
She eyes him wearily, and shakes her head.
"We're in this together."