Notes: Thanks to the readers and reviewers!

Please note the POV change for this chapter! :)

Chapter Seventeen

(Bryn's POV)

"Charlie! Get down!"

Bryn dives to shield her the moment the door explodes inwards almost completely off its hinges. They both hit the wall with the force and disorientation of the explosion, a sizeable fragment of the door's wooden frame rebounding off his back with a sharp sting of pain. But at least it didn't impale him. His ears are instantly ringing to the point he's a bit disoriented still as he turns his body to face the source of the explosion. Thick grey smoke hangs in the air curling all around them on invisible currents. The heavy acrid air causing Charlie to choke; coughing viciously with her hands braced against his back for support. She gasps his name trying to clear her throat, obviously disoriented too.

He just needs a moment, he tells himself, a few seconds to form some kind of plan to keep her safe, get her out of here. But it's too late, absolutely no use; with all his training he knows that more than most. The knowledge sits in his gut like a heavy lead weight. But that doesn't stop his instincts from kicking in; trying desperately to shield her from the door and the men in military street uniforms pouring through into the interior of the smoke clogged room.

Soldiers fill the room, dispersed just right to block any exit; to make taking any one of them down in the hopes of getting away utterly futile. Ten heavily armed men surround them by his quick count though there are doubtless more waiting outside with whatever vehicle they came in. He's got one hand on his knife, cursing the fact that his gun, illegal to carry inside the City walls for civilians, is in his truck useless to them both when they desperately need it. If he had it she might have a chance.

Charlie's still behind him, hands pressed tight against his back, her palms warm on his skin with the cold sweat of fear dampening his lower back. His gut clenches in dread when she breathes his name again, barely audible between the rushing pulse of his heartbeat in his ears, the thunderous noise of soldiers barking orders for them not to move. Helplessness claws at his insides, twists his stomach into knots. There's nothing he can do, absolutely nothing at all.

"Drop it!" He does, it wouldn't have been much use against M-16's anyway.

"Grab the Bitch." One of them says. He tries to keep his body between them, receives a lightening quick fist to the face, a bright burst of pain and the taste of blood in return. Charlie's grip on his arm is effortlessly wrenched away. She's staring at him wide eyed, a frantic 'No!' coming out as she's hauled backwards by the soldier's hold on her arms.

"Keep your guns on the Bitch not the civilian!" The first one who spoke barks, clearly at odds with his current militia.

"Sir, she's detained," one of them starts.

"The fuck she is, you watch her; you hear me? But don't shoot her, we need her alive!"

"Let him go, please!" Charlie's bent forward the grip on her upper arms obviously painful with her elbows wrenched behind her back like broken bird wings. "Just let him go, please." She gasps her words towards the ground. Their leader turns his head to look at her before his eyes slide to Bryn's his gaze cold and detached. They move on quickly to the woman standing just a few feet from them. She's looking just a little shaken, her hands at her sides watching Charlie struggle again.

"Dr. Patrice," He greets, but the tone is tight and laced with disappointment. "Never expected it to be you,"

"What are you talking about?" She asks.

Bryn doesn't have to ask. He already knows. They want someone to blame; need someone to take the fall for their little experiment getting loose.

"I knew she couldn't have escaped without help!" He snarls in answer. "The Hell were you thinking? Do you have any idea what she could do to the civilian population? Not to mention the damaging publicity from the democracy movement! You're one of them aren't you?" He accuses suddenly while raising his arm. "I should have known,"

"Rogers I did nothing of the sort, she came to me—No wait Don'—"

He tries not to flinch at the sound of the gun, already expecting it long before it happens but the explosion sets his ears to ringing again the impossibly loud sound ringing off the walls of the enclosed space. Even a handgun is unexpectedly louder than one would imagine going off so close. Dr. Patrice's head snaps back on her neck, her arms jerking forward almost as if to overcorrect her balance while her spine curves backward in a soft 'C' and her knees buckle sending her to the floor.

Charlie's face has gone sheet white when Bryn looks at her. She's no longer struggling against the soldier's painful grip on both her arms. She staring horrified at the doctor's crumpled form, shaking her head slightly in disbelief. Her eyes lift to take in the red droplets spattering the front hall all the way to the ceiling before she turns to stare at him, real panic setting in as she starts to struggle again the low platform shoes Libby stuck her in slipping on the smooth tile while she strains to break the soldier's hold. She'd have little hope of breaking that grip even in her tennis shoes; and it would do them little good even if she did.

"Don't hurt him!" She's addressing Rogers, twisting and jerking towards them both.

"Let's go." Rogers snaps and the soldier with his gun digging into the spine of his back shoves him toward the door with a single hand on his shoulder.

"You heard him move it." He moves, glancing back to see that Charlie is doing the same, frantic wide eyes still fixed on him.

Down the front steps they're marched to the truck sitting just down the street. He could kick himself for missing it. He should have been watching the windows while they talked. If he had, then Dr. Patrice might not be dead, and they might have gotten away. Now he's a dead man. He's not stupid enough to believe they need him alive; they just shot one of their own without even a military trial. His gut churns harder on that thought. Foster was right, not that he really ever had doubts. Things had only gotten worse in his absence.

"Just let him go! Let Bryn go!" Behind him Charlie is still pleading with them voice quivering.

"Into the truck Bitch."

Anger burns through him like a branding iron, red hot in his gut. "Stop calling her that."

"Sounds like lover-boy has a problem with the Bitch's classification!"

"I said get in the truck!" She's not. She's still fighting with him one leg up on the truck's edge bracing her weight, her leg shaking with the effort as he tries to shove her in. "Fucking Bitch!" He snarls when she elbows him. She only makes it ten feet before they grab her again.

"Rogers, Rogers! Let him go please, just let him walk away and I'll do whatever you want, I promise, I'll never run away again! Tell Griss, Tell him!"

Rogers stares at her his eyes like polished bits of cold hard steel. He reaches for his handgun, expression vicious and cruel, his lips curling with an upward tilt of deep satisfaction. "No, you'll do what I want because that's the way it is."

Time slows all around him. He turns his head to look at her, not particularly interested in staring down the barrel of the gun about to end his life. Begging won't change anything, he knows that. Watching and waiting for it to go dark certainly won't bring him comfort. He'd rather spend his last second or two looking at her, wishing he could go back and do things differently. He should have kept her away from the City, should have realized such an idea was idiotic at best, and suicidal for both of them at worst.

The handgun in Roger's outstretched arm cocks. The sound impossibly slow, harsh and metallic with an exaggerated heavy menacing click. He watches her eyes go wide, head shaking desperately, her mouth forms the first part of a grief-stricken and horrified "n—" and then her head snaps back without warning and her knees buckle so hard and fast she drags both the soldiers down after her pitching them both off balance. He watches torn between fascination and shock as her body contracts in the next moment, contorts in one lithe movement to right itself in the same instant her feet reset themselves on the pavement, bracing her weight a few inches wider in a firmer stance. Her spine bows back up in the mirror reverse of her previous movement. It's agile and graceful like a dancer on a stage. The motion also completely wrong, seemingly defying the very laws of physics by halting mid-fall to jerk back upright—as if something stronger, more in control of its body mechanics were taking over…

Her right arm jerks up higher than her head grabbing the soldiers throat in a strangle hold. Her left arm which was jerked free from the second soldier's grasp with the start of her initial backwards fall is raised now so she's gripping the first soldier's shoulder. She twists and darts forward in the last moments of her upwards bend ending up right under the soldier's unguarded throat snarling in a sound that sends cold shivers up one's spine as she jerks away.

Blood spills as she moves back, coats most of her throat and face with the heavy stream following in her wake already darkening the soldier's shirt as he jerks, twitches and fails to scream with what's left of his throat. Her hand closing around the ruined column of his windpipe while her other arm braces on his shoulder so she can kick her legs up using his height as leverage. She twists her body, rolling around mid-air to get her legs around the other soldier's head. Her hands leaving the first soldier taking a rent chunk of bloody throat with her fist while she completes the turn in the air splitting the shocked silence with an audible bone crunching snap. She twists, flipping off him as they both crumple towards the ground the soldiers lying dead while she lands on her feet like a cat.

Bryn's hands come up, two quick steps forward, a shift to the right, using the distraction to save his own life. He's shoving Roger's gun up and away in a frantic jerk so the shot crosses over his shoulder the sound deafening his left ear once more. He twists much less gracefully then her, but still effective in a lot of respects, then kicks gaining enough leverage to point the gun back at Roger's face. The second shot sends Rogers crumpling backwards to the ground. Rogers' lost weapon, now clasped white knuckle tight in Bryn's hand, a precious chance to even the odds in their battle for survival.

He takes in the make and model with a quick glance. Seven round chamber, two fired already; assuming Roger's started with a fully loaded gun; five left. Bryn grimaces turning to bring the gun around, better make them count. He finishes his turn, half expecting to get shot down before he can bring the gun to bear and offer her any help whatsoever; but he's not the focus of the fight—Next to Sariel's extraordinary penchant for death he's all but forgotten.

He picks off four more soldiers with quick hyper-loud explosive shots before the gun clicks signaling it's empty. All the while she kicks and leaps and spins and bites…and Jesus that's not something a guy wants to watch as the soldier crumples to the ground in obvious agony he doesn't suffer though for long when she ducks over him to finish the job.

The last two pause staring at her, guns hanging limp; forgotten at their sides like the nightsticks equally frozen with shock and horror in their hands. They haven't shot her only because they need her alive, Bryn remembers doubting for all her quick grace she could dodge a few bullets. She's partially alive still because good soldiers follow orders, they don't think. Something he was never very good at. Bryn scowls, the idiots should run. But they don't, and then when her attention shifts to them it's too late.

She's holding a knife lifted off the former solider in her hand, turning the handle over inspecting the blade as it catches the surrounding lights. The soldier she took it from never even getting a chance to remove it from his belt before he was dead. She looks up at them suddenly and they visibly flinch.

She grins at them, "Shiny." She muses softly.

His gut tightens. It was no figment of his imagination. She can irrefutably talk Bryn notes. Clearly understand the use for the sharp object cradled almost reverently in her hand; and that prospect seems to freak the soldiers out more than the sight of the rest of their command lying shattered and hemorrhaging on the ground around them.

One of them takes a step backwards reaching around for his gun at his side, but the other is already bent double in the blink of an eye, his frame curled around her arm as she swoops in close to him. His spine bowed out trying hopelessly to escape the blow he saw coming a split second too late, his shaking hands clutching her arm, nightstick dropped with a heavy clatter to the pavement below. The audible grunt of surprised air rushing from his lungs oddly strangled as it leaves his throat.

She wrenches her body up in the next heartbeat, straightening enough to lift him off his feet with her arms despite his larger bulk opening him up before shoving him back down. Her hands and wrists slick with the same bright red blood now coating the knife just ripped from his ruined gut. He flops against the pavement clutching the two sides of his opened belly gasping and moaning in agony while his intestines and blood press up from the opening between his fingers.

The last soldier is clearly shaking when she turns back to him. "And so sharp." She hisses with delight. Then she bares her teeth completely without humor and lunges forward as he starts to raise his arm.

The soldier's gun goes off, but it's not aimed right, panicked rapid fire bursts explode against a brick wall across the street shattering a window and setting a dog already furiously barking somewhere down a richer neighborhood street off its rocker the rest of the way with a string of hysterical howls.

Bryn has to turn his head away, breathe slowly in through his nose and out through his mouth trying to calm his rolling pitching stomach. He shouldn't be standing here, part of his mind screams. He should be running like Hell. The real screaming stops but he doesn't turn his head, waiting for her to advance on him. Rip him to shreds like her last victim now lying very still and obviously dead.

He counts his heartbeats so frantic they make it difficult to draw in his next breath—though that could also be the smell. Blood. The air is inundated with it. When he opens his eyes it's all over the ground, so much in fact it almost doesn't look real. The closest body to his boots actually a soldier that he took down. One neat finger-sized hole right through the man's forehead like a tiny red puckered mouth. His pale blue eyes staring endlessly up at the night sky; he realizes some part of him is noticing the young man's face for the first time, waiting for the man to blink, break his awful un-ending stare. Part of him is waiting for him to get up and move again, but he won't; not with that injury.

She moves closer and he's still not dead yet he notes a little surprised. Dr. Patrice's words circle endlessly in his head. And despite his earlier convictions, watching her rip Geeks to shreds is a completely different experience to watching her dismember and chew through the living. The sharp burn of acid works its way up the back of his throat flooding his mouth with a god awful taste. He has to drop his chin to his chest, breathe slowly again before lifting his head to find her standing not five feet from him.

She's watching him intently, rocking slightly on the balls of her feet, perfectly balanced even in those ridiculous shoes. His stomach turns, she looks just like Charlie—could be Charlie right now except for the face, and it's not just the blood. Her eyes are different he notices—harder, darker; definitely more narrowed as she watches him fingers twitching slightly at her sides. His gaze follows them wondering if it's because she's thinking about burying them in his intestines next.

Somewhere a few blocks down a siren sounds and her head whips to the side taking in this new sound. Then she's grabbing him, but not in the way he expects. She's clasping his hand in hers as she yanks him forward twisting on one heel into a half spin away from the noise coming towards them. Her finger's sickeningly warm and wet; slipping against his skin. She glances over her shoulder when his steps falter a moment too long lagging behind her.

"I want you to live Bryn Colt," she tugs his hand again more fervidly this time. "We have to run."

He was right. His chest relaxes marginally with the realization.

He doesn't nod, and she doesn't wait for him to. They race up the street, back the way they came before she darts down a side road dragging him with her, twisting them up a second alleyway before skidding to a stop pressing her back flat to the corner edge of a brick building urging him to do the same. When he tries to move off the wall past her to lead the way she shoves him back against it with a single red slicked hand to his bare chest glaring up at him over a heavily blood stained mouth.

The siren passes and she grips his hand again tight grip slipping against his skin while they race up another street before cutting over two more roads diving behind another building this alleyway so desolate it's impossible to make out anything but her outline moving in the dark. There's a rusted out ladder here, half lowered off an old antique looking fire escape. She indicates the ladder with a flick of her pointed hand and they climb with a few grunts on his part from the jump and a narrowed slanted look back at him on her part as she moves ahead of him. Her feet and hands confident and perfectly steady on the narrow rungs even in the dark while his keep slipping in the blood she leaves behind.

When they pass a heavy drying line strung between the two buildings Bryn pauses, looping one arm through the rung and leaning away to snatch two of the closest materials hanging on the line, no time to be picky about it. They'll have to take what they can get. When he reaches the top of the roof she's waiting for him, hands leaned against the roof's edge frowning at the items thrown over his shoulder.

"Strip."

One of her eyebrows moves north.

He's found the second item he needs for this to work; a rain barrel set on the roof used to feed water into the houses below. She watches him dunk the first item he stole off the line into the blue barrel. He steps closer to grip her chin in one hand, raising his other to drag the wet towel over the line of her jaw.

She snarls and slaps his hand away. She jerks her head back glaring up at him through narrowed eyes when he reaches for her again. Her hands jerking up to lock around his wrists in a formidable grip, she squeezes tighter scowling at him.

He finds himself staring back unable to look away. "It won't matter how far we run if you're covered in so much blood the second anyone sees us they're going to sound an alarm."

She releases his hands at that, turning to the rain barrel and in two quick steps puts one hand up on the edge of the rim and simply hops in dunking herself completely under for the span of a few seconds before popping back out the top. She blinks the water from her eyes, shaking her head slightly before pressing her hands to the barrels edge once more and climbing back out with considerably more sloshing then when she went in.

"Better?" She glares at him. And it mostly is, the pale blue lace is mostly rinsed, or at least to the point that in this low light it's less noticeably soaked in blood than before. She's also dripping wet, certain parts of his anatomy note to his chagrin. Her hair clinging to the sides of her face pressed tight and slick almost like a curtain of blood in the moonlight framing her bare shoulders and continuing on down her back.

"Almost," He finds himself saying. He can't help himself, something in that hard look she levels at him makes him itch to push her just a little bit more. Maybe he has a death wish after all.

He steps closer to her again watches her eyes flick to follow his movement as he reaches for her with one hand using his just his fingers to lift her chin. He drags the wet towel just under her chin turning her face to catch a patch below her ear while her eyes watch him so obscured in the low light they're almost black save for the bright edge of reflected moonlight in their depths. He can't break away from the dark heated look she's giving him, somewhere between argumentative and pissed-off. When his fingers brush the corner of her mouth sliding the wet material over her red stained bottom lip a few times she reacts. Narrowing her eyes to glare at him suddenly while jerking her face out of his hand completely and stepping away. She backs away from him ripping the towel from his other hand with a forceful flick of her wrist and dragging it over her own face roughly before tossing it away into the darkness and stalking to the edge of the rooftop.

"Are you alright?" His voice sounds tight even to him.

"I am undamaged," she snarls.

"You need to put this on." He holds it out to her in answer, her top is mostly clean—but they lost her other shirt somewhere in the club; the bag dropped somewhere long before the fight at Dr. Patrice's and even in the moonlight he can see everything through the wet lace clinging to her curves. A detail he is trying desperately not to notice. She should put it on if not for her modesty for his sanity at least. He already knows intimately that she's wearing nothing underneath that tiny black skirt, the knowledge sliding through his brain at odd intervals making his insides tighten. The shirt he stole will practically be a dress on her lithe frame, he absently notes with a wash of relief, the more of her that's hidden right now the better.

She ignores him still staring at the neighboring rooftop. "You put it on." She throws back.

"Charli—"

"I'm not Charlie." She glares at him over her right shoulder eyes flashing vehemently.

"You're clothes are soaking wet," He starts and then stops when she turns to face him swiftly a hint of rebelliousness in her expression of general irritation he doesn't quite follow until he has to jerk his gaze away swallowing roughly trying to block out the image of her raising her hands to lift the hem of her piss-poor excuse of a shirt. He barely gets his back turned in time cursing under his breath up at the stars.

Behind him he swears for a moment she chuckles at his discomfort but it's so quiet he can't be certain. There's the sound of water hitting the rooftop twisted from her hair maybe or her shirt behind his back, her shoes scraping on the rooftop quietly as she moves around. The sound of water hitting the roof once again fraying already overtaxed nerves—there's more water this time, a larger item; her skirt perhaps now being rung out, his exceedingly unhelpful brain suggests to him complete with images of what that might look like. He has to close his eyes and swallow around his suddenly dry throat; try not to picture her standing not three feet from him completely naked in the moonlight except for her shoes. She's trying to kill him, he knows it, or his brain is; he's certain of it.

"uh," His voice warbles and he stops to swallow, trying to talk just loud enough to drown out the noises of wet cloth being rung out and returned to her body behind him—but not loud enough to draw attention to their position on the roof should anyone happen by on the street or be standing near an open window below them. "We need to move that way, back to the truck…" They need to get out of the City.

"No," she tells him firmly. "We will go that way, and stay off the streets."

He shifts his feet to glare at her jerking his head back around at her raised brow over a lot of still bare skin. Cripes. "What the hell is that way tha—"

"You let me worry about that." She talks over him.

He snorts, opens his mouth to argue.

"I am dressed." She informs him and when he turns she is; back in the see-through ice-blue lace, the figure-hugging material slightly tie-dyed with the blood rinse it's received. Her arms are crossed tightly over her chest but not really high enough to block anything he notes. She fixes him with a tight glare mouth pressed into a firm line twisted on one edge. "I am keeping you alive Bryn Colt, stop being difficult."

He nearly chokes.

"Put that on and let's go." She turns takes six sweeping steps and launches herself off the roof while he stares after her in disbelief. She lands rolling across the adjacent asphalt rooftop to his right side with scarcely a sound, straightening back up to look at him over the buildings edge. Her body barely more than a vague outline, one more rough shadow in the darkness.

"Funny, I thought you wanted me to live." He grumbles. Even from this distance it appears her eyes narrow back at him. He slips the dark stolen shirt over his head his also lost in their previous flight—it's more his size anyway. He backs up a few more steps then she gave herself. He curses under his breath wondering for a fleeting moment if he's not as Bat-Shit crazy as she is, then he sprints, leaps and clears the five foot gap between the buildings in a heart pounding second. "You're insane you know that?" He snarls getting up to brush imbedded rooftop gravel from his skin.

Her only reply is to grin at him before turning and bolting across the roof leaping to the next building again. He swears under his breath and follows her, the distance far less than three feet this time, and some of them even closer as they continue to move. When they reach a gap too large to leap she turns following the rooftops outer edge, circling to another fire escape and leading him down to another dark alleyway.

She jerks him to a halt just inside the mouth of the alleyway again. Shoving his chest with both her hands to press them both into the heavy pitch black shadow against the wall as a patrol unit hurries past on foot.

In the near distance, just over the pounding of his own heartbeat he can hear the pulse of the clubs maybe two streets down. She grabs his hand and drags him out of the alley again, across the street and down another one, this one's edge clogged with parked cars.

She doesn't stop to take one like he half-expects wondering fleetingly if she knows how to hotwire one in the first place. He nearly slams into her when she stops on a street corner between two heavily occupied sections of club lined street. The music pounds in his head again, hums along his skin while he watches her twist and bend her way effortlessly through the crowd avoiding everyone simultaneously in a way Charlie never could, hell even he gets elbowed occasionally by someone.

She drops his hand suddenly head turning as she's apparently tracking something moving past the crowd. He has just enough time to inhale a panicked breath to yell a warning before she's leaping into the street right in front of an on-coming car.

The sound he makes is swallowed up by the high pitched protest of squealing tires on broken pavement. The front bumper not twelve inches from her legs when the screeching stops. She's staring at the darkened windscreen, expression perfectly calm, expectant; waiting.

The window rolls down and a spiky blonde head pokes out. "I didn't even see you there, I thought I was tripping!"

Bryn stalks into the street, all around them people are staring. He grabs her elbow trying to haul her off the road but she remains fixed to her position staring at the driver still hanging his head out the window looking a bit poleaxed.

"You almost hit me, I think you owe me a ride." She tells him sweetly.

Yeah right. Bryn shakes his head, like that's going to work. He's trying unsuccessfully to remove her from the road once again; certain they will not be getting a ride from the guy barely past twenty giving her the hairy eyeball from the driver side. Then he shrugs one arm out the window waving her over.

"Oh naturally, least we can do climb right in!" Spiky hair says grinning at both of them. "Don't know where my head's been," He informs the night sky, his head twisted almost unnaturally on his neck as he follows her movement to the back door of the Mercedes, his eyes endeavoring to roll around in his head, clearly un-focusing again. Bryn scowls for a moment wondering just how many drugs the driver is on. "Too much to drink man," the spiky blonde twists his head back to inform Bryn solemnly like it's a problem someone else started and not something he's done to himself. There's a high pitched giggle form somewhere in the vicinity of the passenger seat telling Bryn he's not alone in there.

She walks towards the rear door of the car glancing back over her shoulder at him still frozen and completely dumbfounded in the street. "Bryn get in." She tells him.

More than a few people are still staring at him standing in the street, most of them drunk; but a few of them not. Behind the silver car that stopped for them, another impatient—and most definitely intoxicated youth lays on the horn of his own vehicle drawing more eyes then they can afford tonight.

He gets in. They start off, the car jerking into gear and almost peeling out even before his door is shut again.

"Sorry 'bout that, it happens you know?" Their chatty driver continues as he floors it through side streets not meant for such ventures. "Course if it happened again my Dad said he'd take the car back and how would I get around then? Walk?" Wide eyes fill the rearview mirror staring back at them. "Can you imagine? Who walks anywhere these days?" He adds aghast.

Generally people who keep running over pedestrians, Bryn surmises before chancing a fleeting look to the girl baffling his every thought now sharing the backseat. She says nothing beside him, her head turned to watch the flashing lights and various buildings they're driving past again. The wild mix of City lights casting flame bright halos and washes of unnatural color over her pale skin and wildly twisted wet hair. The shifting hues through the car window highlighting her engrossed expression watching the world slide by them once again. He's reminded of Charlie the night he picked her up; staring wide eyed in wonder out the window at every passing tree and farm house like each one were the eighth world wonder. He supposed for a girl who'd never been outside; they kinda were, just like the dizzying lights of the City mesmerize the other her now.

Outside their car a patrol goes by not even giving them a glance, not in this vehicle; he's starting to wonder if that was pure coincidence.

They swerve around two parked cars almost taking out a third before bumping two wheels up on a curb and then making it off the side street onto a more open road. Luckily without hitting anyone.

"Awesome threads," the driver tells them, his eyes obviously drawn to her top in the mirror. Bryn scowls for several reasons when the other man cranes around in his seat ignoring the road and drifting across two lanes to ogle her scrap of a lace shirt.

Beside him she flashes her teeth, not quite a grin. "Thank you, I made it myself," she tells him and the driver turns back to the road correcting them back across the same two lanes with a quick, "Oops," hooting like that's the best joke he's ever heard. Bryn frowns at her shaking his head. He can only hope she doesn't offer to explain to their driver and his girlfriend who's now taking her own turn staring over the front seat at them exactly how her shirt got that particular look. Then again these two are so outright smashed they might not give that a second thought.

She must feel him watching her in the pressing silence that follows, turning her head from the window to stare back at him. Her expression oddly blank, damn near impossible to read in a way that reminds him of Charlie's carefully neutral face. There's a small dark fleck of something he'd rather not name still coloring the corner of her mouth. His fingers twitch gripping the cool leather seat's edge, indenting the butter soft material under his legs.

She's still staring at him silently. Her weight shifting with the sound of leather over bare skin so that she's almost facing him completely in the backseat, her back to the doorframe; no longer paying any attention to the City outside racing by in a speeding haze. His breath catches somewhere in his chest almost painfully, his suddenly unsteady inhale hanging up on the sharp pressure in his chest. The stumbling nervous beat of his heart drawing his attention, making his palms sweat under her intense gaze.

His hands come up in reflex when she moves towards him across the seat. He's impulsively reaching for her hips steading her as she swings her leg over him while he hisses out a ragged breath watching her eyes darken with a desire that makes his pulse hum. His stomach is falling with a heady rush of want and need he forced himself to all but ignore earlier in the night. They were supposed to be pretending, he reminds himself, tongue flicking out to lick suddenly dry lips; and that had worked out so well he reminds himself, it all came crashing down on his head with one mind-staggering discovery that left him touching her without thinking it through and her lithe form pressed tight against his; completely clueless about what she was doing to him. And dear god she's doing it again. Only in his present company he's certain she knows where they're headed. His head falls back to rest against the seatback watching her shifting over him, straddling his lap in a single self-assured movement blocking the driver and the rest of the car from his view.

Her right hand is pressed to his chest, fingers tightening to a fist over the material of his stolen shirt. His fingers tighten reflexively against her hips, fingertips burning where he's touching bare skin between the waistband of her skirt and that ridiculous excuse of a shirt barely covering anything.

He swallows, should say something; should put her down again, force her back into the seat next to him.

Instead he's kissing her, or rather; she's kissing him. And dear god that's alright by him, doubly so a moment later when she presses flush against him. Her skirt has slid up her thighs again, his fingers tracing the soft skin to the hem before skipping up and over the thin edge of black cloth to grip her ass through still damp material grinding her down into him. She moans into his mouth, inhales pulling her next breath right from his lungs while he drags her close enough to feel her next moan shudder right through him.

"Oh, wow…looks like we didn't leave the party behind after all!" The young man's excited voice from the front seat reminds him suddenly that they have an audience. "Maybe we should pull the car over, join in…"

She wrenches her head back just far enough to snarl against his lips, "Just drive," to their enthusiastic chauffer. Her hands are sliding over his chest again…just the hint of rough nails making Bryn hiss.

"Hey man, no problem." Spiky hair turns his head to the blonde girl staring wide eyed at them from the front passenger seat again attention drawn by their new entanglement. "I think they're taking a solo trip," he laughs to his blonde companion. The sound airy and entirely too giddy to be completely on the level. It immediately grates along Bryn's nerves, discordantly snaking down his backbone and raising the hairs along his skin.

But then she grinds against him again a second later and his eyes almost roll into the back of his head and fuck that annoying sound, or their audience or the slightly weaving car likely to kill them all. His fingers curl into tight fists in her hair, the strands damp against his skin with what he hopes is water but might be blood. He drags her mouth back against his, his stomach skipping and falling at the same time his heart is pounding in his ears…pulse throbbing in his aching cock, every sensation growing more intense with her writhing against him sliding over his lap with little shifts of her hips in damn near perfect counterpart to the mind-altering rush fogging up his senses driving him slowly mad like the feel of her hands running under his shirt.

She drags her teeth over his lower lip hard enough to sting and sucks his tongue into her mouth and he groans grasping the back of her head in one hand, dragging her lips against his mouth while she rubs against him driving him damn near out of his mind. She taste like Charlie is supposed to taste, with just the subtle edge of copper from the fight and Fuck, he can't think about that right now…shouldn't even be doing this.

But then she rolls her hips perfectly over him halting all thought, grinding damp wet sex against the already straining crotch of his pants while he hisses in a tortured twisting of pleasure and pain. His hands grip her hips and his body tightens further underneath her. His pelvis rolls up off the smooth leather seat under him on sheer instinct to press against her heat just right. She mewls over him, face pressed to his neck, hot breath bellowing across his skin with each ragged exhale and then her spine goes ridged and her hips buck into his causing him to groan and tighten his hold on her roughly dragging her down; grinding her against him as her whole body vibrates with waves of tension and then she shudders violently, groans his name against his skin and goes completely limp. Her head lolling against his shoulder face instantly peacefully and relaxed.

He tilts her head up, sliding his fingertips along her jawline checking her pulse…still beating…

"Shit man, I feel ya and it was just getting good!" Spiky hair sympathizes in the driver seat catching his eyes in the rear view mirror for a brief moment. "Aint that the problem with drugs you know…sometimes the high gets you…"

The blonde passenger raises a green bottle to her lips taking a swig before passing the obviously alcoholic liquid to the driver. He'd protest if he wasn't convinced the two had partaken of a lot worse earlier in the night.

"My vehicle is just up here," He lies, eager to get them out of this car before they're all killed.

"No dice man, your girl needs to sleep it off, and what kind of hostess would we be if we left you hanging?" Spiky blonde informs him, an odd concept of civility. The high eventuality of killing his passengers with his hospitality in his current state nary a thought in his head. He waves a hand above the seat, voice jovial. "You can even join in if you want!" He offers and the blonde in the passenger seat shoots him a grin over her shoulder.

He hesitates considering their options. Charlie or Sariel—whoever he ends up with when she wakes up is currently, and who knows for how long, very much out of it; a fact that makes running impossible. The truck is nowhere near their current location if he's got the roads right, and getting out of the City tonight might be impossible anyway. They've already passed several patrols, invisible in their fancy street car. While the driver might get them killed between his intoxication and Geek's only knew what else in his bloodstream, he was the perfect cover. Sariel, he realizes, chose their vehicle well. Nobody questioned the rich, not in this area of the City.

"We would appreciate a place to stay," He tells them.

Spiky hair grins again. "Excellent, like they say; Mary's casa is Sue's casa…"

Bryn frowns, he's certain that is not the expression. His lips turn down. It's only cute when Charlie does that. This rich prick having no reason to get that wrong; other than being an idiot.

That airy laugh again erupts from the front seat once more for no reason tempting Bryn to smash and rip things the way Sariel does. He tightens his hands over her back instead as they slide around a corner nearly throwing them both into the vehicle's door. Bryn shifts her warm tiny frame closer to his chest so he can feel her breath against the side of his face with each puffed exhale. "I will have to politely decline your other offer," he tells the blonde still staring at him over the seat expectantly. She shrugs and leans into the spiky haired driver.

That laugh fills the air again and the Blonde wiggles around in a way Bryn supposed she imagines to be alluring but mostly just reminds him she's extraordinarily smashed and informs him over the seat back a little slurred, "Your loss!"

The driver shrugs tossing an arm around the blonde, ever the peace-keeper. "No problem," he grins over the seatback ignoring the road long enough to make them swerve dangerously again. He jerks his head back at the Blonde's excited squeal and he laughs. "I got the feeling back there you were a one woman only kinda man…" he adds.

Bryn grimaces, and not because of the swerve this time. He is no longer certain of the same. He finds his arms tightening around her limp form still draped across his lap. Can't stop himself from dipping his head to her shoulder against a heavy fall of wet auburn hair breathing her in. Her clothes are pretty much ruined, her shirt smeared with blood that will not be as easy to disguise in the light of day, but she's alive. And thanks to her efforts, so is he.

"We will need a change of clothes," He tells their host hoping to play on his current sloshed hospitality and distract his own circling thoughts.

"That my friend," the driver informs him grinning like a fool again, " is cake."