3: The Pier

His phone rang. Not many people had his number, so he knew who it was before he even answered.

"Alan?"

"Sam, they know. They're on their way now."

"How did they find us? You said you scrambled the tracker they put on Quorra."

"Well apparently Dillinger suspected you weren't one hundred percent with him in the decision. He had a secondary tracker prepped. She's been taking it in through the food she's been eating."

"How long do we have?"

"Not long, I just got out of a meeting, I was pulled in before I could contact you. I think they must have known I helped you." Sam swallowed hard but remained calmly stationary. He turned slowly in place to look down the beach to where Quorra was seated on the rough sand, her now bare feet trailing in the flowing tide of the cold sea. He did not want to worry her, he did not want to give any indication that anything was wrong.

"Alright then," he muttered, "I'll have to come up with something to buy us some more time." He looked out across the water and his eyes were drawn to a single point resting out over the water, a long dark line, rimmed with bright lights that instantly drew his attention. He smiled.

"Sam," Alan started to protest, "I don't think it would be smart to hide…"

"I'm not hiding Alan. I'm going to stand in plain sight." He hung up the phone quickly before the other man could say a word of protest. He tucked the phone away and walked the short distance from the bench to the shore and quickly sat at Quorra's side as she turned to look up at him.

"That was Mr. Bradley."

"Yes."

"Are we in trouble?" He knew he could not lie to her, firstly because she would be able to catch him in it in a moment, and secondly because he could not bring himself to hide anything from a person who depended on him so completely. Trust was the one thing that mattered between them. So he didn't lie.

"Not yet," he said with a quick smile and plucked his shoes from the sand. He reached a hand down to Quorra who was looking up at him with the same wide eyed excitement as always. She gripped his and he pulled her carefully to her feet and nodded for her to take her shoes. She had lost several pairs in the first few days, not being accustomed to having to remove them all the time.

"Let's go," he muttered and pulled her along with him, heading for the long dark line stretched out over the water.

"What is that?" Quorra said at his side, bouncing over the sand with him.

"A pier." She bounded and hopped through the sand with such gusto and excitement he could not help but copy her. His stride became more bouncy and open, free. He rather enjoyed the release of custom, the freedom to do what he wished when he wanted to, ever since his return he had dedicated himself to being a better, more reliable person, but he could not deny that rebellion was built into him, hardwired, infused.

"Just like your father," Quorra had told him.

"Why are there so many people here?" Quorra asked him as they skipped over the rumbling wooden planks of the wide pier. The deck was bustling with people and crammed with multicolored tents touting art and piece of sculpture and pottery. There was a general air of happiness and unbound energy floating throughout the crowd and he smiled as a distant chime of music danced across his ears, the notes far between, but close enough to tantalize and capture his attention. He tried to remember the name of the tune.

"Must be some sort of celebration," he muttered. He had been pulling Quorra along with him thus far, dragging her along by her hand, but now it was her turn to pull him along. She was surprisingly strong and agile and she darted through the thronging crowd more easily than he did.

"Look," she whispered, awed as she finally reached the edge of the pier and stared down into the crashing surf, billowing and broiling against the struts that supported the long structure. The sea spray washed over Sam as he stood with her, one hand clutching hers, the other resting on the wooden rail.

"It's like I could stand here forever," she murmured, looking down into the dark depths, "so many colors…" Sam smiled at her and then chanced a quick glance over his shoulder to see if there was any sign of the approaching security party he knew was close. Her head snapped up as something caught her interest. She dragged him along, excited into the crowd.

"Wait… what…?" he managed to blurt out, but she was moving too quickly. As they slid and slipped through the rows and ranks of brightly colored strangers, the sound of music grew ever louder and louder. He managed to glimpse a wide stage situated at the end of the pier between the sea of shirts and faces, and he knew that this was what had caught Quorra's attention. A massive red banner was strung across two vertical columns, a message imprinted on the front in white letters shimmered in the sea breeze.

"Twenty third annual New Heights Overnight Festival of the Arts." The melody grew louder and louder, echoing across the surf and Quorra pulled him closer and closer to the center of the energy and volume. At last, they broke free and stood on the fringe of a wide bunch of waiting observers, all looking to the stage to where the band was playing. Quorra closed her eyes as the music swam over her, and her mouth opened almost as if she was trying to taste the rhythm.

"Music… your father taught me as much of this as he could. This tune… I am not familiar with…" Sam looked up to the band, the wild and ragged ensemble cast of misfits and smiled as they continued on. The tune was not overly fast, a slow, calm rhythm that lent itself to dancing. Sam stood straighter, looking into the crowd at the rows of dancing couples, at the rows of wide and smiling faces that all seemed so calm, serene and oblivious. He wished he could let himself go that completely, but he couldn't. He looked over his shoulder again, scanning the crowd for any kind of disturbance.

"Nothing yet," Quorra whispered to him and he turned back to find her smiling at him. She looked eagerly at the dancing crowd and turned her head to regard the sign strung out over their heads.

"An overnight festival of the arts," she whispered.

"Must be about over, all of the tents are being taken down." Quorra's eyes danced between the pairs of dancers, all of which were slowly circling and spinning around the open dance floor.

"Come on," she muttered quickly. He looked down at her, surprised.

"You dance?" She gave him a wide, innocent, and slightly confused smile.

"Of course. Don't you?" He shrugged, slightly uncomfortable.

"Not in a long while." Quorra offered her hand to him this time and took a step backwards towards the floor.

"Come on Sam." He could not protest, there was no arguing with the look on her face. He let out a sigh, but accepted her smooth hand and let her guide him fluidly onto the floor. He was tense, watchful of any approaching pursuers, watchful of the other people, of everything around him. His movement were stiff, wooden, and even as Quorra smiled at him, he found that his matched grin did not stretch all the way up to his eyes. She guided him into the crowd, slipped in easily, more easily than he had ever been able to. She was a natural.

At last, finally breaking the silence between them, Quorra turned her head to its side and considered the downward turn of his mouth.

"Your frowning."

"No."

"You don't enjoy this? Am I a bad dancer?" she asked, worried. He smiled and gripped her hand more tightly in his own.

"Your fine. Great, actually, a natural." The smile returned to her face.

"You seem like one as well."

"Really?" he asked, looking down at his own footwork. "I've never been complimented on my dancing." Quorra stepped back a pace, pulling him further into the crowd.

"You are, inside. But your steps are like wood, hard. You have to be fluid, easy, relaxed, like this," she murmured and performed a perfect spin in place without releasing the pressure on his hand. Sam furrowed his eyebrows at this and continued to spin around with her amid the flashing colors.

"Fluid?"

"Flowing, like a river," she smiled. "Dancing is like freedom, the idea we can do whatever we want and there are no rules, there are no boundaries. We're here," she whispered, pulling him along smoothly, "but we're everywhere else. Our minds can wander, because we're free, no one is really watching even if they're looking. Only you know what you're going to do next. You just have to forget."

"Forget?"

"Everything else," she giggled and performed another spin in place, sliding in close to his arm. He looked down at her, paused in motion and he raised his eyebrows questioningly.

"My father taught you this?"

"He showed me the steps, I made my own meaning. He was like you, he needed to understand."

"Understand what?" Quorra unbound herself from his arm and then pulled in close so her chin was against his chest. She closed her eyes.

"That sometimes… we just have to let go. Let go of everything. No worry." Slowly she stepped away and he relaxed his grip on her hand, let his nerves lay flat and let himself go. Nothing else mattered at this moment, because he was here, with her, and the music was playing and he was free. Nothing else was important, nothing in the present, past or future. His legs loosened and he found he no longer had a weight on his back, he was freed. The tightness in his muscles had faded away, he unraveled and fell into line with Quorra's lean, dancing figure. Quorra smiled as he stepped in line with her and they slipped and slid through the crowd, now at his direction.

"Well," he whispered, "I think you can see there is a lot in my world you understand better than I do."

"No," she whispered back, sliding in close again, and for the first time resting herself fully against his arm and side, "you understand. You just sometimes forget. I see happiness everywhere here Sam, even in the smallest places. I'm content with it. You don't have to worry, you don't have to feel guilty. I feel free, it doesn't matter where I am."

"Even in that cell?" he asked, confused. Quorra eased him backwards and he found that he had unintentionally guided them to the edge of the floor and that they were once again resting against the balcony, looking out over the sea.

"Even in the cell," she answered.

"You're not just there because I want you to be, are you?" Quorra looked perplexed now.

"Of course that's why I'm there. You want me to be there, because I can help you, all of you," She lay her head flat on his chest, and though she had done it before, he had never felt quite this close to her before. He slowly raised his hand and placed it on the small of her back, holding them steady against the rail and the sea at their backs. "I'll stay in that cell as long as you want me to," she said, and he knew she was completely serious. It saddened him, and yet, he felt a stronger, even larger emotion slip over, one a good deal more powerful. "We're the same. You're all I have as well Sam Flynn," she said. They stood in silence for a few moments, just staring at one another.

"You lost a father," he said at last, "just like I did." Quorra closed her eyes, and with a thrill of shock, he found that she was crying, a single, very real tear was forming in the corner of her eye.

"I know he's still out there, I can feel him. But I can't talk to him, and that makes me… sad," she admitted, still looking down at the wetness on her finger.

"He loved you. I know that," Sam said quietly. Quorra considered this.

"I didn't really understand what love was when he told me," she said, "I pretended I did, but I never really knew. He said I probably wouldn't, because it was something that couldn't be described, just felt. I think I know what it is now, I think I loved him Sam, I think." She reached a hand up to her face and brushed away at the tear, and her face lit up in surprise as she felt it, felt the proof. Sam did not know what to say all at once, he had never been a deep speaker, one who had a way with words. He had never heard this kind of emotion in her voice before, a hard, husky tone of grief. For all her innocence and curiosity, Quorra was hard, controlled and strong, he had never even though about her crying. And he realized now, grief wasn't a loss of control, it was an acknowledgment that your control was never complete. You could never fully understand yourself, so grief was bravery, an acceptance. He knew that this was probably the most vulnerable he would ever find her. So he thought over what he would say.

"I loved him too. You spent so much more time with him than I did, you knew him better than any. So you know what he would say, if he saw us now, don't you?"

"Yes," she said, regaining control. "He would say… live in the moment…"

"... never in the past and future, because we can't go there… yet." Sam finished. Quorra quieted and shifted even closer into him and he hugged her tightly to his chest. He closed his eyes the same as her, and rested his chin on her dark hair, and they waited there for a last moment on the rim of the present, still in the now.

"Mr. Flynn!" He heard calls from behind him.

"Can I ask you a question?" Quorra whispered.

"You know you don't have to ask," he whispered back.

"Why is your sky blue?" He smiled and closed his eyes as he felt the footfalls on the deck behind him.

"Because that's the way we see it I guess."