AN: I know, it has been ages. I've moved again and I'm currently looking for a new job. Life is not fun at the moment.

I hope all of you have had a good start to the new year, and if not, keep fighting guys!

There's not very much action in this chapter, I hope you don't mind, it's coming, I swear. Once again I thank you all for your patience and support. Please enjoy!

Warning for this chapter: some minor cursing, violence and Christinas mind, nothing new.

Disclaimer: Everything you recognize from Flashpoint is NOT mine.

Firefly - Chapter twelve

The lights are searing, the roar of the exalted crowd drumming through me, drowning out even the sound of my racing heart. The iron bars are cold against my exposed skin, slick with humidity and my own blood. I'm blinded by my own sweat and the blood from a cut above my brow. Head spinning, body shaking, weak fingers desperately grabbing at the bars for support as the silhouette moving in front of me finally charges, the screams of the crowd urging him on and I know I'll be crushed against the bars if I don't move. Move now.

I stumble out of harms way, more falling than running.

Get out, get out, get out!

It's just there's only one way out, a locked door on a bloody cage, with a mountain of a man standing in the way. I'm too young, too small, too weak and the crowd is cheering to see my blood splattered on the floor, staining the bars. I'm too slow, the fist connecting with my face akin to a sledgehammer and my consciousness waver, knees buckling under the sudden too heavy weight of my body. I feel ribs break under the next blow, pain paralyzing just as much as the terror that comes with the realization that I'll die here. Die locked in a cage fighting a fight I didn't chose. I can't hear my own scream over the hollering crowd as it rips from my throat, choking on warm blood.

I'm dimly aware of the hand around my neck, lifting me from the floor like a broken toy. It's so suddenly quiet. So disturbingly silent. I crack my eyes open, met with the strangely pale face of the man trying to destroy me, his eyes widening by the second.

There's a funny sound echoing in the silence. What is that?

Is someone…laughing?

"Why do you live?"

Good question that, mind telling me why your voice is shaking.

"What's wrong? Grown man scared of a girl?"

I am laughing, and the scream that follows not mine.

And the crowd they saw, and behold a pale girl: and the name that sat upon her shoulder was mayhem, and Hell itself followed.

It is one of those days.

One of those days old scars ache.

One of those days you question existence, reality, the very meaning of life and the whole bloody universe just for good measure.

One of those days you wake up and think "fuck it". There's no reason really, just because.

It is one of those days, I'm standing on the very edge, the still calm morning street far below looks almost soft in its silky blackness. I wonder, for a second, if it is. That is, if you fall hard enough. I'm not planning on jumping, not barefoot in just boxer shorts and an old shirt. Well, at least I think I'm not. I've never been sure as to why, why I seek the heights of buildings and bridges, but I always have. And every time, every single time, I wonder.

Should I?

Maybe it is the illusion of a resemblance of control. This is my life and I do as I please.

Or maybe, it is the frail hope that the imminent promise of death will wake something, anything, that'll mend the hole in the middle of my chest. The part that feels physically hollow in a way that's not possible. There's skin and bone and blood. Arteries, lungs, a piece of my heart, my spine. No, I know I am not hollow. And I do not wish for death. But it is one of those days, and I wouldn't fight it.

A gust of wind makes me shiver, goosebumps rising over cold skin in waves as I sway on the brink. It annoys me that I don't know why I'm standing at the top of my apartment building, as if it would help anything, and the maze of my own mind is frustrating to no end. I lift one foot, letting it dangle over the edge and one strong gust of wind would be enough. Choice made for me. Nothing, no reaction what so ever. No sudden panic, no stabbing fear. Pulse calm and hands steady. I growl, switching foot, teetering on the cold concrete edge.

Nothing.

I huff out an exasperated breath before turning to sit on the ledge, back against the thin air, head in my hands. Have I really disabled so many brakes over the years that I've become incapable to fear for my own life? I lean back over the edge, back and stomach muscle straining, eyes focused on the swiftly brightening sky.

"Why do you live?"

I scowl at the empty blue, before heaving myself up and down onto the roof, gravel digging into exposed skin. I jog back down the stairs, digging in the old shirts pocket for my phone.

"Hey Jules, did I wake you? Breakfast in thirty?" Some of the lights are broken on the second top floor and I descend into the compact dark, listening to Jules content chatter on the other end. I grin, giddy with my own accomplishment. It's the first time I've called her and not the other way around. "Yeah, okay, see you soon, bye."

Success!

I tip-toe past my landlords apartment, there's no need to worry the old man more than necessary, two more flight of stairs and I'm home.

Why do I live? Well, it's one of those days, and I've got a breakfast appointment. With a non-violent-bastard friend. Kyle will be proud.

I live because I want to.

That's reason enough.

"Are you planning on telling me what's bothering you? Or do I have to wring it out of you the usual way, cause I will." We are sitting at our usual table, in our usual morning café, waiting for our usual breakfast orders to arrive. Once again I wonder how this habit happened.

"It's nothing, long night again, that's all." I'm slightly annoyed over how quick Jules joy, over my tiny baby steps at reaching out for the metaphorical hand of friendship by calling first, had died. In favor of yet another interrogation no less.

"Is it nothing, or are you afraid I'll think it nothing?"

Fine.

"Remember the call a couple of weeks ago? With the drama quartet alá Sunset beach? I have trouble dealing." There, out in the open just in time for breakfast as the waiter arrives with our plates. Jules, by now used to my weird references, merely lifts an eyebrow, lips twitching into a smile as she carefully sips at the hot coffee. "I never figured you a Sunset beach viewer, please, do tell." I snort, drowning my pancakes in maple syrup to make up for the bitter petrol they serve for coffee here.

"I'm not, can't sit five minutes without crawling out of my own skin. My m…it just came to mind." Don't go there kid. "But that's not the point." I poke at my food, slightly unsure how to express my "trouble dealing" in words. Hitting things is a much simpler way of dealing. And I miss it. "You know how we were shoot at and all that."

"Yeah."

"I got really scared…for Sam. And I keep telling myself that that's a good thing, us being in the same team and all but…that person, that person that on pure instinct reacted in favor of someone elses safety. That's not me! Just like the person meeting you every day for breakfast at the same place, the person that called you this morning…it's not me."

Jules regards me silently for a moment, as if weighting her words. I'm somewhat pleased that she seems a bit thrown. Got more out of me than she expected, more than I intended to say.

"Caring for someone is not a bad thing." I bark out a laugh, short, sharp, close to cynical.

"Caring gives you pain, trust makes you weak and routines get you killed." I take a breath, meeting Jules apprehensive look head on. "Those are the rules I've lived by since I was thirteen. The rules that have very much played part in making me who I was."

"Was." It's a calm statement and I cringe at my misstep. "Correct me if I've got this wrong…the thing that you have problem dealing with, are your own actions?"

"Changes! These changes in me that I don't realize are happening until they hit me in the face, these changes that are a good thing according to everyone else, but so far from everything I've always though myself to be that…" My voice halts as I lean forward, my forehead hitting the table with a muffled thump. "If I'm not…if I'm not the person I see in the mirror, if everything I've always thought of myself is nothing but an illusion to keep myself alive, then what?" I sigh. "Isn't turning into a somewhat decent person supposed to make you feel good about yourself?" I lift my head slightly, chin resting on the tabletop as I pout at Jules somewhat bemused expression. "Do I make any sense at all?"

She smiles, soft and reassuring, carefully nudging my forgotten plate with pancakes towards me and I get the impression that, would I have been anyone else, she would have made a move to hug me. "Somewhat, I understand the disorientation in realizing you've changed first after you've changed. I also realize that I, and the rest of the team, am very much responsible for these changes, and therefore your current sleeping problem and personality crisis."

I gape at her before throwing my fork at her in indignation, snorting out a laugh. "Damn straight you are responsible!"

"What? No protest against the personality crisis?" She grins. "I'm almost disappointed."

"Well, I'm just that comfortable around you that I don't feel the need to defend my questionable stability with violence, which in itself is very weird. And a good thing for you."

"I'm very flattered."

"You're the first girlfriend I've ever had, bloody well should be."

Wait…

"…I mean…well…not girlfriend like that…"

"Oh God you are adorable!"

"I am not!"

"Best girlfriend ever!"

"Don't make me hit you!"