Mark's POV

I watched Rivielle braid and unbraid her hair restlessly after telling John about the incident. Her eyes were farther than I had ever noticed them being. As they always were when she was agonizingly lost in thought: they were dark, beautiful and distant.

I thought about work. I thought about when John planned to carry this out, exactly. I wondered if this was too soon after the last. I wondered if this was once more too much for the women under our responsibility.

As she sat crossed-legged on her bed, her hair twirling through her fingers, I couldn't control my thoughts. Some of which were wholesome enough to tell her myself; some too explicit even to detail here. Heaven only knows how many times I had fantasized about her. I swallowed as I noted every breath she took, every time her chest rose and fell from her lungs filling with oxygen. My gaze wandered from her child-like, uneven lips, the lower lip being a little fuller than the top. I stared down past her jaw, and down her neckline. Her collarbone was elegantly defined. My stare unbroken, then wandered further to her tensed shoulders, then,...her breasts. God, I thought. I quickly averted my eyes, feeling bitterly unsatisfied. My male-driven carnal instinct hated being repressed.

We had talked; she expressed her opinions, asked questions. I did my best to listen and answer. And with such distraction.

And then she was quiet. Having run out things to tell me, I was able to reflect on (once again) her vivid act of affection just one hour prior. What was utterly and stunningly amazing about Rivielle was the fact that just about anything could positively affect her, and she could either completely dwell on it, or completely ignore it and pretend it never happened.

I hated the latter.

Rivielle's POV

I had developed a few nervous habits over the course of my stay with John. I had quit smoking, but I began biting my nails, pacing, and incessantly playing with my hair to make up for it. The last I was doing right after I decided to hide in my room, away from the mental stress (sort of).

I had come back from John, feeling (to say the least) heartbroken. And I was pleased to be able to tell someone what I was feeling. At least he understood where I was coming from.

At least he loves me. At least somebody does. I couldn't tell if I fully welcomed the thought.

'I'll help you figure it out.' Good job there, Mark. Now I'm even more confused.

-

Amanda returned an half-hour later, she was carrying a package for John. I remember it was a dented cardboard box, no labeling and no postage address. As she ascended, I didn't bother asking if she needed help. She carried it up the stairs and down another hallway of the warehouse. Mark asked her if she was okay handling everything. She nodded. We stared at one another for the briefest moment, and then she went into an empty room. From the noises, I thought she began tinkering with some metal pieces, and maybe a wrench.

That evening, Mark insisted I eat. He nearly had to resort to picking me up and throwing me over his shoulder, to get me into the car and drive me to a burger joint downtown, where we could get some fast food. I can't remember which place, but the food was barely food and I only ate half of whatever I was trying to stomach. McGreasy or something. The restaurant was noisy, filled with the frivolity of excited children and the irritated commands from their parents.

"Kasey!," One young mother reprimanded. "Don't hit your brother!" A whine followed, as I watched the child with large brown eyes fold her arms, in tantrum-mode.

Across from Mark and I; a teen couple shared fries and drank milkshakes. The fresh-faced girl, with dark tawny eyes and silken copper skin spoke to her male counterpart with a candy-coated tone that I couldn't help cringing at. He was so obviously drawn in by the flirtatiousness of her gab, and body language to match. He asked her to accompany him to their homecoming dance. She batted her lashes, accepting with a pearly grin that was perfection.

I couldn't help but watch the scene unfold. It seemed like so long since I had seen people interact with everyday banter, speak with words that weren't of dire importance. The simple nature of it enthralled me. And I myself had never had an experience any similar. Their connection so pure, compared to a different standard I had been forced to grow used to. I had not assumed this was the girl's first love, judging from his complete nervousness and her beauty queen confidence. But my first boyfriend, Chris, turned out to be a pimp, twenty-one, and a heroin user. I had been a junior, sixteen, and I had run away to be with him. Ended up selling myself for him. And then when he overdosed in my apartment on his birthday about a year and a half ago, I found myself working more often, and with less remorse. I had no more options. So, bitterly, I said goodbye to his cold body in the morgue and I did not go to his funeral.

The girl leaned in, pressing her pink, glossy lips to the nervous kid's cheek; and all was right in the world.

"Where am I, Pleasantville?" I still couldn't take my eyes from them. They didn't seen to notice anything but one another's sparkling irises.

"We could go somewhere else," Mark offered, noticing my reaction to the food, and atmosphere. "Somewhere...nice. I was meaning to take you out anyhow."

I finally tore my eyes away from the scenery and made eye-contact with Mark; feeling my cheeks get hot. "No. It's fine, really. I'm not even hungry." I really wasn't.

He nodded, and I felt like leaving.

"I want to go." There was not much stillness around me, and I needed to join the world of the physically active, lest I go insane.

"Whats the hurry?" He inquired, his eyes worried.

"I gotta...I gotta talk to John." I stood, shoving my hands into my jacket pockets.

"About?" He leans his head to the side slightly, studying me once more. I sighed, sitting again, pulling my hands out; and a few pennies as well. I began to play with them absentmindedly, stacking them neatly on the table in front of me.

"About whats next." I give the words meaning, and he understands.

"Oh." He obviously knows more than I do, "John's still working out the kinks...but more than half the traps are ready."

I nodded, wanting to say more than I was about to, but not really finding my will or the help to sort the jumbled thoughts in my head.

"If there's anything I know about John, it's that he's almost too complex. He'll never settle for the simplest route. If you've noticed, he keeps raising the bar."

"I know that. And it's terrorizing me." I hiccuped into my sleeve, I realized it must have looked odd. "I'm losing it Mark."

"Can I ask you something?" He's quiet and divining.

"Shoot." I relaxed my shoulders.

"Well, hypothetically of course...and for your sake, let's say something were to happen to John..."

I tried to process the words. "What?" I became angry.

Why does he insist on making me think about these things?

"What if he was seriously hurt, or...Rivielle, what if he died? What would you do then?"

"Nothing." I considered. "I would do nothing. Life would have much less meaning." My tired eyes rose, meeting his. He shook his head, closing his eyes. He must have known the nature of my response before I said it, and was hoping it would be different. I was sorry to have disappointed him, but the past was gone. And I wasn't about to change my answer. Anything less that what I had already offered would be a lie, and an insult to John. Of course, I meant every syllable.

"Do you think you would find the strength to go on? Would you be able to live, no...cherish your life?"

"Yes. For his sake. Though..." I watched the teen boy pay for the meal, and take the girl's hand as they left. I watched his chivalry as he opened the car door for her, and waited until she was safely buckled before he drove off. "I suppose it would take me a while..."

-

When we returned, I hung up my jacket, and made my way hurriedly to John. The hall was dark, and I tripped over a metal bar that was simply laying on the floor. My foot collided with it with a 'clank' noise.

"Ow..." I nursed my toes, hopping comically on one foot in the shadows of the corridor.

"My bad." Amanda stepped out from the dark, she picked up the metal piece that I now saw was a pipe. "Maybe you should watch where you're walking."

Maybe you should watch where you leave your shit.

"Yeah..." I watched her bring the pipe back to the room she had left. I noticed that her hair was growing. She was watching the news in there. I heard the professional voice of the reporter 'Standing right outside the crime scene...' The sound of it gradually faded as I walked further on, the sound of my shoes echoing as well.

"John?" I knocked on the door twice, he let me in.

He let me collect my thoughts, returning to his work while I stood in the corner, holding my elbows. Usually, before I talked to John, I had to at least rehearse in my head; or be subject to either: blabbering nervously, or merely piecing together imperfect fragments of what I'm really trying to say. This time, I had not thought beforehand, and was feeling rather pointless.

"Are you alright?" John asked quietly, while he wrote in a notepad.

I nodded without thinking, but immediately realized he couldn't see it, since he wasn't facing me. So I answered verbally. "Yes."

"I heard your stumble back there." He glanced at me, one corner of his mouth turned up, teasing me.

"Oh...that. No, I'm fine. It was dark, and...I'm stupid." I laughed weakly.

"You are not stupid." He paused, "I'm actually installing a new light fixture in the hall. It's become hazardous, wouldn't you say so?"

My foot throbbed dully. "A bit." I smiled.

"Have a seat, Rivielle."

I pulled a folding chair from it's place on the wall, bringing it closer to John and sitting in it.

"So thats what Amanda's playing with in there...a light fixture?" I asked.

"No. What she's doing is in fact, crucial to our next game."

My eyes fell to the floor. "Oh...well, that's actually what I came to talk about. I have a question."

"I'm afraid I may not have a satisfying answer."

"Whatever you have is good enough."

He was silent. He looked at me with the studious regard that had become too familiar.

"John...don't you think this is a little..." I struggled to find the right word, "...venturesome? I mean, it's so soon. We were almost caught last time. What if...John, what if something happens to you?"

And what would become of us?

"Considering my predicament, I don't have so much to lose. However, if I do lose my life, or my so called 'freedom' accomplishing what I've worked for, then it would have been well worth it."

"You do have freedom." It was barely a whisper.

"Nobody is free! Everyone is bound by something. Money, Power, Greed. The truth is, being behind a jail cell is the only thing that can set most people free from it."

"What are you bound by John?" I couldn't think of anything. I knew exactly what held me back, but not John.

"Cynicism is a great possibility. But mostly by time."

"It's an illusion, isn't it?"

"But it holds us back, Rivielle. In the end, it keeps us from our true potential. It chases us down, and fetters us to the clock. And it keeps counting down. Forever."

"There won't ever be enough of it, will there?" My heart was heavier than ten-thousand blocks of cinder.

"No. I wouldn't think so." He coughed into his sleeve.

-