Shadows clutch at my chest well into the night while cold wind reminiscent of an anemic beggar’s hand claws it’s way beneath my clothes; attempting to rip them off so maybe it will possess the warmth I appear to have. But no real person possesses anything besides the clothes lucky enough to stay upon their back and the ghost of a fire in their eyes. Warmth and safety only belong to those wealthy enough to buy it or intelligent enough to earn it, and while belonging to the latter group can be advantageous, it does not come without risk.

 

I crouch atop the windowsill adjacent from my target area, surveying before I jump. The large hedges surrounding the building take too long to climb, and the noise alone would have me caught in an instant. The jump across the six-foot gap between my position and the hedge will not be a problem from the second story sill.

 

I clutch my jacket closer and jump. The air flows past me as I land softly onto the grass on the other side of the hedge.

 

I slink around the edge of the perimeter slowly, maintaining a visual on the guards. They slouch at their posts with deep, white puffs of breath. Their eyes are half lidded while their heads dip and jerk in a vain attempt to stay alert. It is easy enough to maneuver my way around them towards the door that will lead me inside. The snow has not fallen yet so the overworked men will not notice my tracks.

 

Once in front of the door, I enter the code that cost me hundreds of plats.

 

In order to gain money, it must be spent.

 

Six simple digits allow me entrance and my gratitude towards my connections swells for a brief moment. I walk carefully inside the building with my toes touching down before my heel. The light from the ceiling reflects off of the floor to create a white sterile look that helps to reinforce the façade of this building. Any knowledgeable person knows medicine has not been in the structure for many years.

 

The deeper I move into the building, the less white everything appears to be. The rooms that line the walls change from imitation medical areas into darkly lit rooms filled with many files, and the once pristine floors change into cold, dirty concrete.

 

After walking for about five minutes, I reach my objective. Each room contains a monitor filled with multiple different files, and the one I want contains information that will keep me fed for at least two months with room for spending.

 

This trip must be successful. I can only borrow for so long before the other brokers smell blood.

 

As I approach the desired door, I place the thumbprint I bought onto my finger. Pressing my thumb onto the keypad, I let myself in.

 

“Destination reached. Would you like to program another?”

 

The metallic voice rings into my ear, but the words are lost on me because my focus is elsewhere, mainly on the large monitor in front of me. The glow from the screen illuminates my face and everything around me. Because of this I was able to see the chair placed in front of the screen, the cameras present in the upper corners of the room, and the guard that was lazily flicking through encrypted files. I continue to walk with my toes pressing down before my heels and sneak up on the guard. A blind spot in front of the monitor ensures that I will not be spotted when I smash his head into the desk before him.

 

As the man slumps forward, I move to take his place and look through the information. The files here hold so much information, but unfortunately not all of it can be reached with the limited access I have. I am starting to feel as if I am chasing a ghost.

 

“Interesting.”

 

Ghost or not, this system had an exorbitant amount of information on myself and several other persons of interest.

 

“Unidentified personnel detected. Repeat, unidentified personnel detected,” was suddenly blaring over the intercom, and that voice was something I could not ignore. My codes and fingerprints should have guaranteed that I was undetected.

 

“Shoot.”  

 

I quickly save the information on a portable hard drive, and then exit the room. Outside of the room a hallway leads two opposite directions – east and west. I make the decision to go west towards the garden I entered from. I proceed through the long corridors of the facility as fast as I can while still maintaining some semblance of stealth. But the slick metal floors have a nasty quality of echoing the sound of my boots. Fortunately for me, the slick floors work both ways, and I am able to hear the guards advance.

 

“Intruder is proceeding on foot through the facility. We must catch them.”

 

Not a likely occurrence though the thought is humbling. I must keep running and set a new route.

 

“New destination not set. Would you like to program one?”

 

Excellent timing.

 

I have to make a checklist of advantages in my favor.

 

Every object, situation, mindset, is a tool. Noisy boots, metal floor, memorized floor plan. They know this place well, but I know it better.

 

I have speed, agility, and training. I will not be bested by these men. I quickly answer my personal Operating System, and decide where I will go to lose my pursuers.

    

“Yes, guide me to the bazaar. Quickest route possible.”

 

“Calculating. Destination set. Proceed along guided route.”

 

They’re gaining speed, hide in the alcove, and let them pass.

 

I can hear them sprint past where I am hidden, feel the thump of their boots become lighter, and their heavy breaths grow farther away. I must keep moving though because my small success will not last long.

 

“Thank you, OZ.”

 

I abruptly change course, with a destination in mind, by cutting through some passages unknown to most low-level guards. I reach the area where I entered into the building and see the sliding metal doors about to close shut due to the alarm blaring. The men have caught up to me now and are sprinting against time in order to make it through the doors. They know how long it will take for the doors to open again once they have been locked down. I run as fast as I can then slide between the door panels just as they are about to close.

 

Gaining some time, while helpful, does not take me away from the dangerous situation I am currently in. The doors that I just slid through deposited me back out into the facility’s garden area. The guards who previously occupied the garden are now rushing towards my area, but before they can surround me I sprint.

 

I can only assume that their guns are still behind their backs because of the lack of gunfire. I reach the wall and begin my ascension just as the sound of an explosion reaches my ears. I risk a look back and see that they’ve blown the door open. I turn back around and reach the top of the hedge. I leap then run towards the muddy bricks that lead into the bazaar.

 

The familiar stench of poverty, sweat, blood, and rotten meat, assaults my senses, but I cannot stop sprinting. I run past the people moving to and from the bazaar. They make way for me while simultaneously moving into the paths of the guards now chasing me. The people know that if I am kept alive, there might be more plats floating towards their pockets. Making trouble with the authorities is the least of their worries.

 

“Destination reached. Would you like to program another?”

 

“No.” I gasp out as I slow my pace to a normal walking speed.

 

Slow pace, pull up hood, and blend with the shadows. Disappear.

 

I walk down the worn path that worms its way in front of the many different vendors, while trying to remain incognito. Buildings rise on either side of the bazaar, and trees are spread intermittently throughout the area. The various people passing by drag their feet and slump their shoulders. I imitate them and think I am successful when I hear someone ask, “Miss, have you seen anyone running through the markets?” It was most likely an officer who was ordered to search for me.

 

I freeze and quickly run through various plans of action in my head.

 

Run – too risky, I would have to start my concealment efforts again. Stun – a quick jab to the throat would immobilize him for a short period, but I would be forced to run again. Flirt? The idea is so ridiculous that I cannot even believe it popped into my head. I am nowhere near knowledgeable enough to use the feminine wiles I apparently possess. However, a familiar voice is my saving grace as I realize that I was not the person being addressed.

 

“No, I’m afraid not, but my friend has been miss-“

 

“I can’t help you now. File a complaint with the other officers in that building,” was the gruff reply, “I’m busy with something else.”

 

Digress and distract with a plea of help. Ingenious.

 

“You’re welcome,” the girl who spoke to the officer says to no one in particular. She is a girl in her early teenage years, with a bright young face, and skin that is without the marks of a hard life. Checking once more for running guards, I join her on the street. She attempts to look down at me, but our height difference makes it nearly impossible for her.

 

“I always remember to thank you.”

 

She knits her brow and narrows her eyes. “Yea, but that doesn’t make me like you anymore than I already don’t.”

 

“Yes I am quite aware of that. You make it a point to tell me that at least ten times a day… child.”

 

“And I absolutely hate it when you call me child, Al-mmph.”

 

I feel like I move quick as lightening when my hand reaches her lips. I roughly hold her still so I can whisper, “Haven’t I told you not to say my name out loud, child?”

 

She pries my dirt caked hand off of her mouth and mumbles out a yes. Interactions as usual cause me to wonder when she’ll start seeing me less as an arduous chore and more as a partner. The thought itself is so humorous I cannot help but show a brief upward turn of my lips.

 

“You’re not funny, just annoying.”

 

She accompanied that observation with another critical mumble, and in a flash my face is blank. I retreat back to my hood while contemplating why I ever decided to take this child under my wing. Though whether by choice or not, we are stuck with each other.

 

“Very well, let us head back to the compound.”

 

“Whatever you say, Master.”

 

“You are not my - I’m not your… Never mind,” I reply with a sigh and start walking to our destination. I can only hope that this will become easier for me, but I doubt that it will. Years of self-discipline is the only things that are keeping me afloat, and I pray that nothing happens to it.

 

As we walk, I realize that she's falling behind. 

 

Heavy feet, slow tread, making prints, traceable evidence. Correct mistake. 

 

"Since you have so much energy to stomp your feet with, use it to walk faster and lighter, child." 

 

"I am not a child!"

 

"I apologize for the mistake. I was not aware that adults stomped and yelled. But please, carry on." My voice comes off as harsh, and I immediately regret showing such a lack of control over my annoyance. With that behavior, I too should be considered a child. But admitting such would surely be the death of my sanity.

 

She opens her mouth to speak, but the words do not appear. It seems that I have won the game of wits, but that will not stop her for long. The frustration will boil over again soon without a doubt. Especially when the walk, that should not have taken long, was greatly extended due to the heightened probability of detection. 

 

Eventually though, we reach our goal and are at one of the entrances to my residence. The compound is a simple building hardly worth any recognition to a person sweeping the skyline. That is one of the main reasons I chose to live in it. The inside, while very plain as well, has enough comforts to make it an improvement from sleeping outside. A working kitchen and bathroom were the first improvements to be made.

 

Noticing the perplexed expression on the child’s face as we enter the building, I await the question that is no doubt on its way.

 

“Didn’t we come here another way before?” she says, with her narrowed eyes and defiant posture that she loves so much.

 

The amount of detail those eyes capture is uncanny. Almost as if she had been taught the ability rather than it being a trait bestowed on her at birth. But the silence drags on, and I am aware that the child is waiting for an answer.

 

“Of course we did. Detection is always on the forefront of my mind.”

 

She throws her hands up into the air and proclaims to the sky, “And that just explains everything. Admit it, you’re paranoid. Or crazy, whichever word you like more.”

 

And with that, the conversation has been terminated. Nothing can be salvaged. My face scrunches up into a scowl, and we continue on our chosen paths throughout the building.

 

But upon doing a quick scan of the area, I notice immediately that someone else has been inside the compound. I signal for the child to retreat behind me.

 

Chair pulled out, tablet and stylus atop table, warm temperature, shower running, scent of vanilla...

 

I breathe the scent in deeper, knowing it will be the only time to do so with peace of mind. 

 

The water for the shower cuts off and the sound of the curtain being yanked back leaks through the door. After a short pause the door starts to slide open. My muscles tense and my breath holds as a creep closer to the bathroom. I pull my knife out and level it with my face, and am met with blonde hair and angry green eyes. The anger changes to a delight that is much like a child greeting their best friend. I attempt to sheath the knife, but her hand catches my wrist. She takes the knife, and throws it a hair away from the child's curious face. The child’s curiosity shifts to fear at the same moment the woman’s delight shifts to caution.

 

The barrage of emotions is almost too much to handle - almost but not quite. 

 

The woman leans closer, and asks in a quiet voice "And who is our little house guest?" The predatory tone barely masked by her faux curiosity. An answer starts to form, but the thought is lost when her hand doesn’t leave my wrist. My eyes furrow in a questioning manner. But as always, Chelsea declines me an answer. 

 

I do not understand her motives. She does not aim to harm me, but the constant testing of my limits only serves to confuse me. It seems she is playing a game, and I only have to figure out which one.

 

Protect the child, do not fall victim to the sirens song. As she moves her lips by my ear, I realize that this is another attempt to seduce and otherwise immobilize me. My focus is shifted from her words to her body as she presses closer and makes me more uncomfortable with every inch lost. I eventually make out something akin to, 'are you going to answer?’

 

I cannot even string together a coherent thought with another body so close to mine. The one thought that enters my mind is Chelsea harming me in some way. My posture is so stiff and my muscles so tense, that I begin to feel a dull ache because of it.

 

But the child is my salvation when she whimpers in fear. She draws the siren's gaze towards her instead of me. Chelsea releases my wrist, and I remain frozen in place. Chelsea’s ploy to immobilize me has worked for the moment, and I take a mental inventory of my physical conditions. My heart rate is through the roof, breathing is labored, perspiration evident, and face is flushed. Control breathes, reduce body heat, rub wrist, answer question. As my awareness returns, I try to find my place in the conversation occurring before me.

 

The thought of lioness stalking a young antelope, preparing to kill it, is what fills my mind as I watch a towel clad Chelsea walk towards my ward. Giving up on splitting my focus between the conversation and baby antelopes, I start talking as if the room were silent. 

 

"The child is my responsibility now Chelsea. Her father requested that I care for her in his absence. The market war did not spare anyone."

 

Chelsea turns towards me with her hand on her hip and asks, "Who's the father?"

 

A reasonable question, but the answer will surely make the child a target. In this one instance I decide to override the enigma of Chelsea and carry on with the task bestowed upon me by the child's father. 

 

I slowly shake my head back and forth. That is a topic that I am not willing to discuss at such a delicate time. She understands and instead asks another question.

 

"How much?"

 

Chelsea wants to know the amount of money I was offered, and the amount I truly accepted. I can only sigh while swiping a hand across my face. I have to dodge another question and say, "It would be unwise to speak of." 

 

She turns her head towards Elizabeth but replies to me, "Ally babe you're just no fun." She looks to me again and her mischievous grin is back. But I know that the conversation is far from over. Put on the shelf only to be dusted off on a later date. "But anyways, I came all the way here to this dusty little shack just to visit you. Only in the name of love would I ever do such a thing." She winks and saunters towards the area under the loft where her clothes are.

 

The air of mystery has returned, and I can only scowl. I relax though as I risk a glance at the child. Elizabeth puts up a strong front at what she views as a dangerous situation. Her fists are balled and her posture is straight, but the slight shake in her hands belies her façade.  I know this as does Chelsea, but the child is not aware of our knowledge. Although unsure, I gently place a hand on her shoulder and squeeze it lightly. That being about all the comfort I can manage, I walk towards the kitchenette, and start to prepare food for the three of us. 

 

Once the body is nourished and alleviated, the mind will soon follow. 

 

But my plan is foiled when another reasonable question is fired at my back.

 

“…Are you two dating? I mean, if you were it wouldn’t be too surprising. She’s the epitome of woman and you’re… a tomboy. Opposites attracting and such.”

 

Dating. The notion is so absurd I cannot even fathom it. To rely on another person, it is an undeniable formula for disaster. Not to mention willingly being vulnerable. Too risky, and exactly what I refuse to let happen. Emotions are dangerous, and I will be damned if I allow Chelsea to crash down my walls simply by touching me. That siren is just toying around, testing my limits. I refuse to let it bother me. 

 

"She seemed to get you awfully bothered, what with the whispering and all." The girl said with a sly smile, her nerves forgotten. 

 

Drat. I might refuse something, but that does not mean it will not be brought up again. But I am done being toyed with today, and reply with "You seemed more bothered by her than I was, what with the knife throwing and all." 

 

Table turning. It is fast becoming a favored pastime of mine when interacting with this child, and I can see that it has worked. I turn my back one last time and finally go to do what I had planned before all of this social nonsense occurred. For me to soothe my body, meditate, and clear my mind.