A/N: I'm sorry on Gavin's behalf. He frustrates me too. But he's still family. *tugs at hair*

Chapter 05: The Warner-Frost Services

Gavin Anders was careful not to overfill the drinking glass set on the cherrywood nightstand beside his king-size bed. The plastic pitcher shook in his hands as if its water load weighed a great amount, bringing a frown to his forehead. He couldn't blame the tick on nerves, though. It must've stemmed from the pot of coffee he downed not long ago.

A snigger drew his gaze to the brunette woman leaning against a pile of pillows in his bed. "What, Mia?" he questioned, stoic.

"Stare any harder at that glass, I'm sure it'll shatter," Mia teased. Unrefined motor skills left her impish grin half-formed. Nevertheless, its intent was so familiar that it rekindled Gavin's relief, and he placed the pitcher alongside the glass to keep a new tremble hidden.

'Why do I bother? She's just going to—'

"What's the matter?" His short-haired wife paused so she could awkwardly wipe the side of her mouth when she spit. "Liked it better when I didn't say much?"

"It was lonely." Gavin had no idea why the words flew off his lips. He could only reason it was a truth he had been dying to release. Yet he still couldn't face the woman without feeling like he would cease breathing. "I know these feelings are remnants from my delusions. My brain is…mixed."

"Delusions," Mia said softly. She swallowed hard, shifting under the bed's sheets. "Don't tell me you've had…episodes."

Gavin caught himself when he fell against the nightstand. "You were in a coma, M. Towards the end of three months and with Nia…My mind wanted so badly for you to wake."

"Now you feel like…I'm not really here?"

"Wouldn't be the first time."

"Gav."

A longer pause followed. At first, Gavin took the slurred, slurpy sound in stride. It meant Mia needed to wipe her mouth of excess saliva—a common act for those recovering from brain trauma. However, when the silence persisted, he dared glance sideways.

"What are you doing?" the redhead cried.

His long arms propelled forward so he could stop the army crawl his wife attempted across the bed, and he cringed at how boney and small she felt in his grip. Silent, the brunette allowed him to sit her upright against the headboard once more as his gaze trailed down her pale face to her lower body entangled in the sheets.

"I wasn't there for you," grumbled Mia through the short veil of her hair. "Not you or our baby."

"It wasn't your fault."

"Knowing that…doesn't make me feel…better."

"If I could, I would rid any guilt from you. But now you finally know what happened."

"My memories have been whole for a while…you know? Just before I came here from the hospital two weeks ago." Pausing, Mia swallowed audibly with her forehead against her husband's shoulder; though a few drops of spit landed on the covers anyway. The woman wouldn't permit her love to wipe her face before she continued. "I'm glad they waited, really. Being called Misses Brown and Carol felt weird. I just wish…you two wouldn't hide from me."

"What hiding is being done?"

"While my motor skills are lacking…my mind is sharper than ever, Gav. The tension's too real to ignore. My baby wants to tell me something important…but she won't. And you know what it is…don't you?"

"Read us like books," the redhead muttered, lifting a hand so it play with his wife's thick hair.

She leaned into him—coughing a moment—then buried her head against his neck. "It isn't hard. You two can sport the ultimate pokerface when overwhelmed, yet your eyes…her…ability."

"We don't need to talk about that."

"But it's a part of her."

"It set our home on fire. It caused a panic in October. It's dangerous."

"Wh—what panic?"

"Never mind. You should focus on other matters."

"My physical therapy is slow-coming," Mia uttered, just shy of disdain. "All I have are"—she slurped—"my thoughts. She's special, Gavin. Like I thought all those years ago a—at Warner-Frost Services."

"You never could've expected she'd be—she was…" The truth wouldn't form. It was hard enough admitting it his mind, let alone out loud. And he found himself growling at memories, where Nia acted like the loss of a normal life was welcomed.

"You wanted a free life for her, unlike what you had. I know. But…when she talks about her new friends, she looks as if she's flying. Why do you see them as a cage?"

Gavin shook his head. He felt thankful their eyes didn't meet, and when the brunette attempted to lean back, he held her still. "She's throwing away everything I worked so hard to give her."

"Is that how…you see it?"

The redhead grunted.

"Sure, they lead unconventional lives. That isn't such…a bad thing. They did save her, right?"

"Not bad?" Teeth gritted, grip stern, Gavin reeled back so fast that a sense of vertigo spun his wife's surprised expression. "I was already leading a second life. Being forced into a third is—"

The man stopped himself, simply because Mia's slight tremor beneath his hands fueled the pulse thumping in his ears. He meant to shake his head, yet the woman's brown eyes peered through his round glasses, paralyzing him in bed.

"Imagine the people we'd be…if we let our parents dictate it," she whispered. "You, of anyone, should understand. What we want for Nia is happiness and health. So she isn't…normal. Does that make you love her any less?"

"Course not."

"Then let her be who she's meant to be. Please." Mia reached towards the man's cheek, brushing a soft thumb along the edge of his goatee as if to accentuate her plea. The action was nice, memorable, so Gavin reveled in it while his eyes closed.

"At this rate, what she's meant to be is hunted," the redhead said under his breath.

"Who better to teach her how to survive a hunt…than you?"

Though the words were soft, they cut like slow knives into one's gut. As Mia's arm encircled her husband's neck, an unrelenting prickle roused behind Gavin's eyelids. It chocked him shortly before tears welled, leaving him pliable in his wife's grasp. He held onto her little frame—in part conscious of her frailty—then clenched his jaw.

"I—I don't want her to be alien," he croaked. "I don't want her hunted. For once…I wanted something normal."

"I know," she whispered back. Then, she grew silent.

Nia's migraine pulsed the moment a high-pitch squeal reached her ears. Regrettably, her chance to fix matters had already passed, so the crouched artist turned stiffly by the wall to see what damage she had managed in the midst of her project. True to the Turtle Luck she'd adopted, a prim lady in expensive clothes glared back at her through wild blue eyes, foot raised from the short hallway's flooring.

"I—I'm so sorry, Miss Heart!" Nia exclaimed when her gaze fell on the yellow paint encasing the woman's fancy pump.

"Just look at this mess, Brown," Miss Heart snapped.

It was amazing how elegant her pale countenance looked while sneering—from her furrowed, arched eyebrows to her full, downturned lips. Nia found it a marvel, really, and though a few people in the past had mistaken the black-haired females for sisters because of their similar features, Nia knew she could never compete with Miss Mellissa Heart's movie star quality.

"Sorry," the younger woman added. "I didn't mean—"

Miss Heart held up a flawless hand, shaking her foot so violently that Nia feared the pump would slip off while splattering paint specs against the hall's partly-finished mural. "Always excuses with you," she snarled before removing the stained shoe herself. She paused to tuck long hairs behind her pierced ear then let her hand travel its length to below her ample bust. "Just keep your toys closer to your play area. Some people actually work for a living, which is hard enough without little girls sabotaging us."

Pure experience told Nia it would be pointless apologizing any further. It always was. Regardless, she couldn't help opening her mouth for another weak 'sorry' as Heart spun, huffed, and then stormed off on uneven feet.

"Honestly,"—Heart's grumble drifted faintly behind her—"my raise was put on hold for that? Useless…"

'Guess I get lazy where I put my supplies,' Nia thought with a sigh. 'I don't mean to. I just have a system. I—it's not my fault I work in the middle of traffic…' She sighed again.

"Pay her no mind, Darling. Simply don't do it!"

'And here comes the polar opposite.'

Nia knew better than to remain seated when in Irma Flemming's presence, so she stood, her chest racing with an alien excitement. Behind her, a pale, elderly woman –no taller than five feet—beamed with thin, red lips. Clicks from her heels grew louder while she rounded the artist's work area with the ease of a model, and when she halted, she stood with an elbow in one hand and the other poised for conversation.

"Nia—I mean, Sarah, Darling"—she ran her bony hands across the collar of an overpowering fur coat that swallowed her figure like a hungry animal—"you will ruin the mood."

Despite the secluded hall, an anxious jolt ran through Nia's stomach at Flemming's penetrative voice. She wanted to insist her alias be enforced, regardless of their history; however, correcting her boss was like correcting a cat—especially when the Ritzy lady's bright eyes shined with determination behind her over-sized, round glasses.

"Why the long face?"

Blinking, Nia glanced away. "S—sorry, Miss Flemming. I just feel like…Miss Heart won't be happy until I'm gone."

"Probably true." Bold, honest, Miss Flemming waved her posed hand. Her pout remained but a moment—as her expressions often did—before she chuckled, grinning again. "Poor dear will remain unhappy then. When you finish this mural, I want another."

"Re—really?"

"I do not lie, Darling. Why would I?"

"I—I don't mean it that way," Nia insisted with a curt wave. "B—but I thought this one was my last."

Flemming raised her arm high enough towards the mural behind them that Nia noted a pricey collection of gaudy jewelry across it, and the artist knew the elder woman's red-painted nails were just as refined. "I changed my mind, Darling. I often do."

'Boy, does she,' thought Nia as her boss' arm dropped. 'Still…'

"I've already done three for the office. W—why would you want so many?"

The look Miss Flemming shot back was nothing short of a gawk—exaggerated, short-lived, yet poignant in every sense. She wiped it away by brushing a hand over her wrinkled face, as if she couldn't do so otherwise. "Isn't it obvious?" she questioned. "Murals are lovely. I live for lovely things!"

"But…I'm not famous. Why would you want so much of my work?"

"The answer is clear, Darling. Can you not see it?"

"Uh…" Nia shrugged—an action rewarded by a tart look then a huff.

"The murals are for the children. For the hope! You started here, remember?"

While true, Nia furrowed her brows, watching as Miss Flemming stalked up and down the hall to gaze at the unfinished artwork.

"Many wander this building. Young, confused, scared. Their world has forever changed and they have no vision. Their mind is clouded by disaster. Wouldn't it be comforting if I could tell them 'A kid just like you grew up to paint the world like she had always wanted; you can too'?"

Nia described Miss Flemming as boisterous to her clan; it was the perfect word, though it didn't quite encapsulate the energy her boss exuded. This energy often churned in the artist like a plunge pool, sometimes overwhelming. Like now. Prickles through her weak body left her floating the tiniest amount, so she inhaled deep then replied.

"I…guess it would."

"Of course it would, Darling!" Flemming countered. "Of course! So you work. Pay no mind to Heart; she has no vision. Not like us."

"Thanks, Miss Flemming."

"Speak nothing of it, Darling; I will not have it. Oh! I've got an appointment. But I'll be back. I want to know all about that new building of Baker's, okay? Okay. Ciao!"

'Right; the clinic. I know Miss Flemming is nice and she led my adoption, but…the clinic's super-low key so Mel can be hired later. I wonder if I can talk about it without giving into her prying. Then again, she and Baker are old friends, so maybe it would be fine? Wait, that's right; why ask me? She has a phone!'

Nia would question her boss' strange reasoning, except Flemming was nowhere in sight, leaving a somewhat eerie silence in her absence.

'Guess I'll find out later. Meanwhile, I need to head for the basement. Again. Get a tarp and bucket. Sponge. Heart didn't have to fling the paint around like she did.'

Really, it felt like half the work Nia expended involved washing messes.

'I swear she does it on purpose now…'

Or maybe not. It would be very juvenile if she did, and not one thing about Misses Heart cried girl.

So, shoulders slumped, Nia sealed the various paint pails spread between dirty brushes, water containers, and reference photos. Her unfinished lunch and abandoned MP3 player (which must've dropped during the commotion with Heart) was then shoved into the leather satchel Hugh had given her the year previous. Once everything was safe, she draped a canvas tarp over the area then headed for the open staircase at the hallway's end.

It felt like second nature descending three flights of modern architecture until she reached the less impressive basement. Unlike the floors above it, the grimy space was cramped from stout wall to short wall with unused materials and in such disarray that no one dared organize it. Nia tripped on a tripod that had been knocked over on her way in, but steadied her body against a stack of heavy boxes ahead, flipping her long ponytail over her shoulder.

'The tarps I have now were near the center, so…guess I'll start there.'

The plan was sound. Yet a strange sensation worked its way under Nia's skin as she stepped forward. The young woman found herself eyeing the path she took warily, and her footsteps against the cracked concrete sounded loud in her ears.

'I'm probably being paranoid. My empathy is really shaken in crowds…okay, so there aren't any crowds down here. Maybe I'm sensing them from above? Though that's too far away. And a bathroom, I think. So I shouldn't be unnerved, even if I could. Unless…am I unnerved? Or is this—'

Clank!

The rate at which Nia spun turned her into a living top. Her legs twisted beneath her. She fell like timber into a collection of old bed sheets and something below them that crunched sickeningly when her full weight met it. Hissing, she floundered upwards—if only to double check what else had fallen over besides an outdated floor lamp.

"I—is someone there?" the artist called, stumbling away from her unwanted bed.

She conquered slow steps down the path, towards the lamp, until gentle movement erupted behind a broken vanity. When the movement increased, so did the alarm in Nia's chest. She paused at the vague chatter of something metallic, gaze fixed on the vanity like it would attack; however…she doubted all the dread belonged to her. She was sure of it, actually, and once she ventured closer, a higher vantage revealed a surprising sight that could only be matched by one time in Nia's mind.

A/N: First cliff of the book! Many more to come. HAHA. Next chapter's long-awaited 'Starberry Girl'. Review please! :D