Anonymous
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She was just so tired.
They’d patched her up somewhat on the boat. Slapped a few bandages on the worst of her wounds, and there were plenty of new holes to choose from. But, the boat held too many injured folks. Too few supplies to treat them. Same for medics, poor bastards were working desperately to keep glassy-eyed children from bleeding out. If she got what she needed, someone else would go without. Someone else would die for her.
She clutches her rifle tighter and stays in her corner. She was fine. Sure, she feels something broken inside, but people have been calling her that for years. Maybe this is what they meant. She was paler than the gauze wrapped around her torso, but the comparison didn't last long. Red suited her better, anyway. Any medic that walked past got the same answer. Wave them off. Joke, maybe. What do you call a hundred politicians on a sinking ship? A good start. She was fine. They left.
“You left.”
Darn right, she did. She’d made it. She was free. Used to be, the only escape was a needle, a pipe, or a bullet. Might as well have been a pile of bodies in the slums, no different than the piles in the sewers. Sure, a few could climb to the top, but then you’re just another weight crushing everyone underneath. But she’d gotten out. Didn’t cost her anything she hadn’t already lost. One of the Rangers is saying something to her. He gets another joke. There’s no ‘i’ in denial. She laughs. Good joke. Bad idea. She knows a busted rib when she feels one. The Ranger leaves. At least they aren’t trying to put her in a cell again.
Getting caught was a mistake. Coming back at all was a mistake. This mission to the club was the first she’d dirtied her boots on Pittsford’s streets for years. Somebody had to do it. She knew the territory, knew the people. When their targets pulled attention, she was the one who could get caught and have plausible deniability. No mission here, just a stupid former local with a private grudge. Her squad got away, free and clear. They were safe, the mission was safe. They abandoned her.
“You abandoned us.”
Like abandoning a sinking ship. Had to be done. That’s what people do. Drop the dead weight, drop what slows you down, drop what holds you back. That’s how you survive. Like that Nat person they left behind to take the bullet for them. She knows she could have done something to save them. Could’ve even taken Nat’s place. So far as the CPF knew, she was neutral. A prisoner, a conscript. Could have bluffed them for a few minutes, kept them busy, might not even have gotten executed for the trouble. Worst case, she could’ve introduced them all to Pepper just like she did in Canada.
She did nothing. Just like she did in Canada. Just like these people. These people had abandoned Nat. They’d abandoned that ship, probably their home, probably not even the first home they’d fled from. That’s what people do. That’s what she did. Does. There’s a hand on her shoulder. Another of the Rangers. Wants to know if she needs a hand disembarking. She tells him that she was thinking of telling an orphan joke, but realized it wasn’t wanted. He shakes his head. Leaves. Good. Plenty more orphans after today. Help them. It wasn’t even their fault.
Might have been hers. It’s usually hers. Her rifle helps her stand, queue up in line to leave the boat. The Rangers told her that her targets, her captives, the two that had been arrested with her were hit in the shelling. A coincidence, maybe. Or sacrificing a pawn from the board. Nobody will notice two dead Brighton agents amongst a pile of civilian corpses. Whether or not she agrees with the secrecy, she’s not supposed to let them know what she was doing. Can’t let them know how important those targets were. How much those spies might have known or revealed. Monroe was neutral. Not taking sides. Not getting drawn into a civil war and leaving more orphans to joke about. She tells the Rangers her cellmates must have been saints, because they were cannonized. They ignore her. Good. They want to take her to their outpost, treat her there. Not so good. She refuses, watches them leave her on the shore, waits for them to be out of sight before collapsing. No telling what she might reveal under anesthetics. No telling. The last of her mission she hasn’t fucked up yet. Not for lack of trying, she was still alive. So long as she was alive, the mission was still on. Nothing’s changed.
“You haven’t changed.”
Nope. Nobody’s changed here. Still the same old smile. Same old jokes. Same old Missy. She hasn’t changed a bit.
She’s just so tired.
They’d patched her up somewhat on the boat. Slapped a few bandages on the worst of her wounds, and there were plenty of new holes to choose from. But, the boat held too many injured folks. Too few supplies to treat them. Same for medics, poor bastards were working desperately to keep glassy-eyed children from bleeding out. If she got what she needed, someone else would go without. Someone else would die for her.
She clutches her rifle tighter and stays in her corner. She was fine. Sure, she feels something broken inside, but people have been calling her that for years. Maybe this is what they meant. She was paler than the gauze wrapped around her torso, but the comparison didn't last long. Red suited her better, anyway. Any medic that walked past got the same answer. Wave them off. Joke, maybe. What do you call a hundred politicians on a sinking ship? A good start. She was fine. They left.
“You left.”
Darn right, she did. She’d made it. She was free. Used to be, the only escape was a needle, a pipe, or a bullet. Might as well have been a pile of bodies in the slums, no different than the piles in the sewers. Sure, a few could climb to the top, but then you’re just another weight crushing everyone underneath. But she’d gotten out. Didn’t cost her anything she hadn’t already lost. One of the Rangers is saying something to her. He gets another joke. There’s no ‘i’ in denial. She laughs. Good joke. Bad idea. She knows a busted rib when she feels one. The Ranger leaves. At least they aren’t trying to put her in a cell again.
Getting caught was a mistake. Coming back at all was a mistake. This mission to the club was the first she’d dirtied her boots on Pittsford’s streets for years. Somebody had to do it. She knew the territory, knew the people. When their targets pulled attention, she was the one who could get caught and have plausible deniability. No mission here, just a stupid former local with a private grudge. Her squad got away, free and clear. They were safe, the mission was safe. They abandoned her.
“You abandoned us.”
Like abandoning a sinking ship. Had to be done. That’s what people do. Drop the dead weight, drop what slows you down, drop what holds you back. That’s how you survive. Like that Nat person they left behind to take the bullet for them. She knows she could have done something to save them. Could’ve even taken Nat’s place. So far as the CPF knew, she was neutral. A prisoner, a conscript. Could have bluffed them for a few minutes, kept them busy, might not even have gotten executed for the trouble. Worst case, she could’ve introduced them all to Pepper just like she did in Canada.
She did nothing. Just like she did in Canada. Just like these people. These people had abandoned Nat. They’d abandoned that ship, probably their home, probably not even the first home they’d fled from. That’s what people do. That’s what she did. Does. There’s a hand on her shoulder. Another of the Rangers. Wants to know if she needs a hand disembarking. She tells him that she was thinking of telling an orphan joke, but realized it wasn’t wanted. He shakes his head. Leaves. Good. Plenty more orphans after today. Help them. It wasn’t even their fault.
Might have been hers. It’s usually hers. Her rifle helps her stand, queue up in line to leave the boat. The Rangers told her that her targets, her captives, the two that had been arrested with her were hit in the shelling. A coincidence, maybe. Or sacrificing a pawn from the board. Nobody will notice two dead Brighton agents amongst a pile of civilian corpses. Whether or not she agrees with the secrecy, she’s not supposed to let them know what she was doing. Can’t let them know how important those targets were. How much those spies might have known or revealed. Monroe was neutral. Not taking sides. Not getting drawn into a civil war and leaving more orphans to joke about. She tells the Rangers her cellmates must have been saints, because they were cannonized. They ignore her. Good. They want to take her to their outpost, treat her there. Not so good. She refuses, watches them leave her on the shore, waits for them to be out of sight before collapsing. No telling what she might reveal under anesthetics. No telling. The last of her mission she hasn’t fucked up yet. Not for lack of trying, she was still alive. So long as she was alive, the mission was still on. Nothing’s changed.
“You haven’t changed.”
Nope. Nobody’s changed here. Still the same old smile. Same old jokes. Same old Missy. She hasn’t changed a bit.
She’s just so tired.
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