t h e t h i n g s w e l o s t

Not for the first time, Meri found herself walking the streets of the city and contemplating quitting her job. She wouldn’t do it, of course — she knew she was privileged enough to be getting her tuition paid. The rest was up to her, and as unpleasant as it was, that meant dealing with demanding customers. At least it was payday.

When your entire existence revolves around having no free will, you pick up certain tricks to make life easier. One of those tricks was blasting music through earbuds at a volume that was likely to do permanent damage. It helped prevent against tiresome everyday orders. Walking the sidewalk with Florence Welch’s angelic voice serenading her meant that Meri could avoid having to bow to the whims of angry pedestrians. Sure, the odd ‘move it!’ wasn’t an issue, but this was a new habit she’d formed after one particularly irritated businesswoman told her to go play in traffic. 

With her check tucked safely into her bag, she nudged her way through the revolving door into the bank and quickly set about filling a deposit slip. Back to the door, music pumped to eleven, Meri remained oblivious to just how bad her luck had gotten.

At least, until someone grabbed her cord and tore her earbuds out. 

“What the hell, dude?”

The question died in her throat the moment she turned toward her assailant. He had a shotgun, and the barrel was pressed against her hip. 

Though his mind is still reeling and his body is frozen with a mixture of anticipation and fear, Warren catalogs the entrances, exits, windows, and staff members almost on reflex. He’s never been in a firefight like this, but he knows how to survive, and right now survival means cooperating and waiting. A city like this knows how to handle burglaries, and no one needs to get shot. 

The woman who’d pulled him down dials 911 while a man on her other side starts to cry. Everyone else on the floor is somewhere in between, clutching one another, too scared to move, to speak. All but one, who had not noticed the cacophony past the blaring of her earbuds apparently, because the second shooter, the one not yelling at them to stay down, now towered over her with his gun pressed to her hip. 

A reflexive shift forward has the woman next to him getting a firmer grasp on his pant leg, hissing “no!” at him with wide eyes. Beating down the self-preservation that told him to stay down, out of sight was surprisingly easy in comparison to watching a girl get gunned down.