Author's Note: Happy New Year to everyone! I'm sorry these updates are taking so long, but I think that's just the way this fic is going to be. I'm very committed to making them as high-quality as possible in terms of development, but real life has a way of infringing on my writing time. After this chapter I will be beyond the rewrite and into writing everything for these chapters, so my estimate for updates would be about every two weeks. I'll try to get them out faster, but don't worry if you don't see updates very often--I haven't forgotten and I have no intention of dropping this fic. I hope you're still enjoying.

Chapter 4

"Go get in bed with him." Mimi points to Roger's sleeping form, and tries not to make too much noise laughing at the sight of Mark's usually-pale features turning bright red.

"Mimi, what the hell?" Mark grunts as she puts a finger to his lips, shushing him. He whispers carefully when he opens his mouth again. "Why?"

"Just do it. It'll be funny." She isn't quite sure why she's doing it, but she has decided to take advantage of the unusual spurt of optimism that has captured her this morning. She needs to face Roger while she's still strong. And she needs him awake, now.

"Mimi, I really don't think I should—" He shuts up as Mimi pushes him forcefully down onto the bed and Roger groans awake.

There is a beat of silence while Roger stretches and opens his eyes. Another. A third, and then…

"Mark! What the fuck!" Roger staggers to his feet, a string of curses falling from his lips as he struggles to get his balance. Mimi laughs weakly, and Mark turns even redder.

"She made me," he mutters, pointing accusingly.

Roger looks stunned for a moment, glancing back and forth between the two of them trying to decide who to believe. "Why?" he asks at last, calming a bit.

Mimi shrugs, still laughing. "Can't a dying girl have a bit of fun?"

The silence that descends is like a slap in the face. Mimi feels cut by her own words, though she isn't sure where they've come from all of a sudden. She's tried so hard to avoid facing this reality, it's snuck up in her subconscious and stabbed her in the back. Mark can't take his eyes off of Roger, though his whole face is filled with dread. Roger looks as though all the air has gone out of him.

"We need to talk," he says at last, very quietly.

Smack was sick. They had found him lying facedown, nearly drowning in a pool of his own vomit, filthy blond hair plastered to the back of his neck with sweat. He still hadn't woken up, and it was nearly the middle of the afternoon, but he was still breathing—barely—so they knew he wasn't dead. Rusty had gone off a few hours ago, claiming he was in search of medicine, but no one expected him to come back with anything for anyone but himself.

Jaws had made a fire in one of the trashcans, throwing a lit match onto the pile of old newspapers he'd scavenged the day before, but the little bit of heat was hardly enough to make a difference in the single-digit weather. The first snow had come late this year, some time around the first week of February. Now it was nearing Valentine's Day, and it had been snowing for three days straight.

"Hey, No Name!"

Mimi opened one eye a crack and saw Jaws staring at her. He'd gotten his name because his front four teeth were missing, leaving a dark gaping hole between the two sharp canines. He always wore a battered old leather jacket that he had apparently won in a fight, but would never talk about. It was his prized possession. Jaws was somehow mysteriously indebted to Rusty, so he hadn't tried to usurp leadership of the group yet. He wasted no time, however, in ordering the others around when Rusty was gone.

Mimi rolled over and draped one arm over her eyes, attempting to ignore him. She had learned over the past month and a half that it was better not to engage in one of Jaws's bitch sessions.

"No Name!"

Mimi continued to ignore him. She changed positions again, trying to ease the pain in her stomach. It had been long enough that she was now sure she was not pregnant, but she was still sick more often than not. Now that the weather was bad, it was even harder to get food, too.

Jaws kicked at her, the toe of his combat boot hitting the small of her back. Mimi rolled back toward him and batted at his foot with one hand.

"Fuck off," she muttered.

Roger sits out on the fire escape until he can't feel the cold anymore. It's drizzling a little, and occasionally little pieces of ice bounce off his face and arms, burning like ashes. On a phone pole below, one of the posters he has tacked up looking for a band is wilting. The ink is running in the damp weather, and the paper hangs over as if ashamed to show the world its sorry state. He almost can't bear to look at it.

"Roger."

He doesn't turn around. In a way, he has been waiting for Mark to come out and check on him. Because that's what Mark does. But now that he is here, Roger can't seem to find the energy to talk. The past few hours have sapped all the resolve he has left.

"Roger, it's fucking freezing out here." When Roger turns at last, he sees Mark holding out his very worn jacket. "At least put this on."

"Fuck off," says Roger. "I'm already sick."

"No point in making it worse." Mark shoves the jacket at him. Roger takes it but doesn't put it on. "Where's Mimi?"

"Downstairs," says Roger noncommittally. "Asleep."

"Okay. You might want to pay a little attention to her, you know. You can't just ignore her because she's sick."

Suddenly, Roger wants very much to hit Mark. "Fuck, Mark. I do pay attention to her. But what am I supposed to do? All she ever feels well enough to do is sleep. Am I supposed to spend all the rest of our time together staring at her lying in bed? I'm not…This isn't how I pictured things."

"But that's life, though, isn't it Roger." Mark's voice is quiet. Just real, not accusing.

Roger is silent for a moment, searching for something to say. He doesn't feel like a fight. Not looking at Mark, he shoulders into the jacket and pulls it closed. Below, the poster catches his eye again.

"My poster died."

"That it did." Mark chuckles. "Should we take it to The Life and have a funeral for it?"

"Fuck off." Roger sighs. "I think the band died too. And it hasn't even started yet."

"Why do you say that?"

"Nobody's contacted me. You know that." Roger is getting frustrated. He likes frustration a hell of a lot better than fear.

"But someone did contact you, Roger."

"Maureen doesn't count." Roger hangs over the railing a little, feeling dangerous.

"She's got a good voice."

"But I don't like her."

They are silent for another long moment. Roger runs his fingers along the railing, scraping long trails in the frost there with his nails. It's painful, and Mark grimaces at the sound.

"So what's wrong?" says Mark at last.

"Why would you think that anything's wrong?" Roger is stalling.

"Because every time you come out here to be by yourself, it means you're thinking of doing something like jumping off that railing. Come on, Roger. It's cold out here." Mark stares Roger down for a very long time, his ice blue eyes like cutting glass.

"I just…tell me something, Mark." Roger turns away, unable to look him in the eye.

"What?"

"How do you know…when it's just too much?"

Mark comes over and sits beside Roger on the lower part of the railing. He does not look angry, only sad. He has been expecting this, dreading it for three weeks. His voice is filled with resignation when he speaks. "What do you mean, Roger?"

"When um…when it's time to…Mark, I can't do this. I'm just not the kind of guy who loses himself in this kind of thing. I mean I've always been a fuck up, right? I run away. I let other people help me and when I'm done I leave. It's just the way I am. You can't…expect me to do anything else. It's just not what I do."

"How long?" asks Mark.

"Maybe um…maybe six months. If she keeps taking the medication, which she isn't."

Jaws grabbed her shoulders and shook her roughly. He wasn't kidding anymore. Mimi squirmed away, jolted awake by the flood of adrenaline that came with his touch.

"Get up," he insisted. "You fuckin' boyfriend's gone."

Mimi sat up at last and glared at him, not willing to let him gain any ground.

"He ain't my fuckin' boyfriend," she shot back. "I ain't never fucked him yet." It was a flat-out lie, but she knew Jaws was looking for something to be angry about. Perhaps if she denied it, he'd find someone else to pick on.

Jaws narrowed his eyes at her. He was angry.

"You gone fucked every other asshole in the neighborhood."

Mimi bit back a sharp retort and tried to convince herself that the pain in the back of her throat was from the cold. It was true. She'd escaped her father only to find herself with a multitude of other men, some of whom were much, much worse. But it was the only way she could make money, and food was essential. As it was, she could hardly stand the thought of it.

"It's a living," she shot back angrily.

"Yeah? Make much?" Jaws took a step closer, towering over her. Mimi scrambled to her feet, though she was still a good ten inches shorter than he was. "Where's it all go?"

Mimi continued to back away, but he was relentless, advancing on her one step at a time. She could smell his sour breath, and it brought back memories that were all too recent. She shivered, fighting nausea.

"I gotta eat," she managed weakly. She jumped as her shoulder blades came into contact with the wall suddenly. They were on the second floor of the hollow concrete interior of the building. The windows were open holes, like huge sores with light pouring in.

"How much ya charge?" He was still advancing on her, closing in like a cat about to pounce on its prey. Her heart sped up.

"Twenty," she stammered.

"Twenty?" Jaws mocked.

"Hourly."

The gang's two other girls were watching now, though they had been feigning sleep earlier. Perox was up on her knees, her white-blonde hair half-covering her face. Mama lay on her side, her face propped up on one hand. She looked bored.

"'Course," said Jaws, glancing at the girls and winking, "you gonna give a discount to you friends, uh?"

Mimi swallowed hard, the words sticking in her throat.

"I—I don't—"

Jaws leaned closer, his breath moist across her face, his lips just barely brushing hers. Instinctively, Mimi jabbed at him with her knee, catching him square in the gut. Jaws gasped, reeling backward, clutching his stomach. Mimi darted away, out in the open, turning back just in time to see Jaws lean over and vomit a stream of whitish liquid onto the concrete floor. He coughed a few times, wiped his mouth, then turned back to Mimi, his face livid.

For a moment she contemplated running, but there was nowhere else to go. Get on the wrong side of a gang, you're finished, thought Mimi, another piece of Rusty's advice echoing through her mind. If she ran now, she'd be on her own. She would try not to sleep at first—sleeping was the most dangerous time—but eventually she'd get tired. She'd get too tired, so tired that it just wouldn't matter anymore. She'd close her eyes for a few minutes and they'd find her.

Mimi shook herself, trying to banish the images from her mind. She didn't like the gang, but at least it was safe. Rusty had taken a certain inexplicable liking to her, and she couldn't help but like it. She'd never gotten much attention from anyone before, and it was intoxicating. Granted, it was never quite what she wanted—he was rough, cold…he never seemed to care. No matter how hard she tried, he was never satisfied, never treated her any differently. He was a far cry from one of her romance novel men. There were nights when Mimi felt she would do anything just for one real kiss. She sighed and forced her thoughts back to Jaws. She knew that Mama and Perox would waste no time in offing her if they ever got the chance. They were probably cheering him on right now.

"Fucking hell!" he cried, turning on her, "You gonna play like that, bitch, you gonna fucking pay!"

"Maureen?" Joanne puts her briefcase on the floor next to her tan leather sofa, and wonders why the apartment is so damn quiet. She doesn't regret inviting Maureen to move in, but it certainly has changed the atmosphere of the place. This is the first time in weeks that she's come home to the hum of the heat, rather than screamed telephone conversations, music turned on loud, or some kind of rehearsal.

"Honey, are you here? I'm sorry I'm late, I got held up at the office. Fuck the PC Nazis; they need to get over themselves." She continues talking to drown out the doubt that has begun forming in the back of her mind. It's actually been somewhat comforting for her to come home and find Maureen being…well, Maureen. Finally some amount of consistency in this crazy whirlwind relationship of theirs. Now, in the silence, the doubt is threatening to come crowding back.

Joanne makes her way into the kitchen, her eyes pealed for signs of movement. As nervous as she is, she wouldn't put it past Maureen to jump out and surprise her. Nothing. She walks through the little combination office and den she has built for herself to work in, staring at the bookshelves and rock statues that line the walls. Everything in place. She thinks about the news she has just received as she makes her way down the hall to the bedroom. The jittery feeling that has been in the pit of her stomach all day grows.

Maureen is lying on her back on the bed, eyes closed, headphones clamped firmly over her ears. The music is something angry, and turned up loud enough that Joanne can hear the beat of the drums from the doorway. She stops and stares for a minute, wondering what has happened. Maureen listens to music often enough, yes, but there is nothing quiet about it. She is the kind of person who insists on singing and dancing along with whatever she is listening to.

"Honeybear?" Joanne puts a hand on her shoulder, and Maureen jumps. She sits up all too quickly and practically rips the headphones off her ears.

"What?"

"Nothing. I'm home. What are you listening to?" Joanne sits on the edge of the bed and attempts to take the walkman from Maureen. She grabs it possessively and shoves it under her pillow.

"Oh, just an old tape I found. Gives me inspiration. I was meditating."

Joanne narrows her eyes. Meditation would explain Maureen's silence, but last time she checked yoga was not done to heavy metal rock at deafening volume. "Come eat dinner. I have something to tell you." The nervous feeling comes back with a vengeance.

"Not hungry," says Maureen. "The process of digestion might interrupt the internal balance which my meditation has established."

"Maureen…"

"Come on, Pookie. I'm doing this for my health. You were the one who said I needed to calm down." Maureen smiles sweetly. "Besides, you can tell me whatever it is right here."

"I don't know…" Joanne is beginning to have doubts about telling Maureen tonight.

"Please?" Maureen pouts.

Joanne sighs. It doesn't seem like such a big deal now. "I've been offered a promotion. With a significant raise."

"Pookie, that's great!" Maureen gives her a rather long kiss, then pulls away abruptly. "What's the catch?"

Joanne feels her heart hit rock bottom. She should have figured Maureen for knowing immediately that there is something behind her joy at the offer. Maureen is nothing if not perceptive.

"I would have to move. To Washington."

Jaws staggered forward, still disoriented, plunging one hand into the pocket of his leather jacket. The hand came back out a moment later, almost as though in slow motion. The razor glinted in the light from the windows. Mimi stood frozen, unable to move. He was advancing much too fast. He raised his arm above her head, brought it down quickly. She stiffened, readying herself for the blow. The razor scraped into her arm, the pain searing. And then, just as suddenly, it was gone. Something colliding with her shoulder, sending her reeling, tumbling to the floor. The impact with the concrete came as a painful surprise, knocking the wind from her lungs. She lay there for a moment, stunned, gold and green spots dancing before her eyes. The sounds of a struggle were all around her, echoing off the unpadded, crumbling concrete walls.

Mimi blinked, forced her eyes to clear, forced herself to look back up. She knew Jaws would not give up that easily. He had been defeated once, he would not give in without revenge.

Jaws had lost the razor—it was lying on the floor a few feet from Mimi's hand. Rusty had returned and had Jaws in a headlock—he must have knocked her out of the way of the blade. She felt a surge of hope at that—maybe she still did have a chance if he had come back.

"Get it!" Rusty cried as Jaws broke free and caught him in the face with a powerful punch. Rusty reeled backward, blood pouring from his nose.

Mimi scrambled to her knees, the concrete ripping the skin through the holes in her jeans. She grabbed at the razor, her fingers shaking. Her hand closed around and she gasped as it cut into the tender skin between her fingers. She pushed herself up against the wall and managed to reach one of the windows, letting go. She watched the razor for a moment as it fell, a little glinting spot in the sun.

Jaws moved back toward Rusty, who was struggling to breathe, his entire face crimson with blood. Jaws brought his knee up, catching Rusty in the stomach hard. Rusty fell back, coughing, spewing blood onto the floor. Jaws moved in, brought his foot up to finish him, but suddenly Smack started to moan loudly, still unconscious. Jaws jumped and turned, blanching. In that moment, Rusty managed to get to his feet again, stumbling over to where Mimi was standing. She stepped back impulsively, still shaken, then instantly felt guilty.

"Bastard," growled Jaws, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

"Jaws," began Rusty, his voice hoarse.

Just then the sound of sirens cut through the tension of the fight. They watched in horror as two police cars and an ambulance sped to a stop across the street, and four paramedics got out and began walking briskly in the direction of their building, the police close behind.

"The back," gasped Rusty, and started to run.

Mimi followed him, not stopping to look back, though she could hear the clatter of Jaws' footfalls on the concrete floor. At last they reached the back of the building, diving behind a large dumpster. It wasn't an ideal hiding place, but they couldn't afford to go out on the street in case the police had left an officer behind to watch the cars.

Mimi looked out from behind the smelly brown plastic just in time to see two paramedics loading a stretcher into the back of the ambulance. She could barely see Smack's greasy blond hair sticking up over the edge of the sheet. A moment later they closed the doors and drove off. Slowly. No sirens or fanfare.

"So?" asked Rusty over her shoulder.

"He's dead," she whispered, hardly recognizing the sound of her own voice.

She turned back, looking at the two of them in the light. Jaws was pale, silent. Mimi remembered suddenly that Smack was his brother. A filthy tear rolled down one cheek, washing a pale line in the grime on his face. The fight was gone from his face.

Rusty was still covered in blood. It was crusted all over his face, in his hair, on his hands. He looked like something out of a murder mystery.

Finally, Mimi looked down at her own hands. A long, jagged gash ran down her right arm where the dagger had slashed her. One hand was covered in bloody scratches.

It should have hurt. It should have hurt like hell.

Or at least stung.

But she only felt the numbness.

"Mimi? Mimi, chica, are you all right?"

She comes to awareness with a jarring shock, the room spinning around her and shimmering with things that are only half-real. Angel's voice continues in her ears, but she is downstairs now. Alone.

Taking a wrenching breath, she pulls herself into a sitting positions and is immediately assaulted by needles of pain that threaten to tear apart the little resolve she has left. Her skin is on fire, crawling with little nit-like things that she cannot see. For a moment she scratches like mad, then realizes it is fruitless and gives up.

"Roger?"

Her own voice sounds strange in her ears. It seems to echo off the walls, and suddenly she feels that they are about to come crashing down on her. She is alone.

She is alone, and something is terribly wrong.

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