musings

“Then start from the beginning.” She says softly, like it’s the easiest thing to do.

my head is pounding. my eyes burn. everything is numb. there are things im forgetting. there are things ive forgotten. there are things that are broken. i tell myself. breathe. stop. breathe. stop and breathe. its okay to want to break. i tell myself, stop chasing sunsets. youre here now, to stay. hope will not take you home, hope will not make the pain go away, hope will only make you miss what youve forgotten. root yourself here. build a foundation. make it work. root yourself here. you can no longer go with the wind, this is not a western, not anymore. its going to change around here, it gets cold and it gets hot. the way things are. nothing is constant. there will always be something for you to lose and thats okay. it means youre alive. stop and breathe. tell yourself, breathe. the backs of your eyes will burn from time to time and thats okay. youll look in the mirror some day and see a tired face, dark circles around eyes that have not seen much yet and thats okay. youll feel things that will make you feel selfish and petty and shameful and thats okay. these things remind you that you are still a part of this world. there are things you will never feel. love, maybe, hate, maybe. maybe youll be lucky enough to feel them one day. to find home in the crook of someones neck. to feel fire in your veins. maybe you wont and thats okay. you will never be empty. because we are gods of our mind, we can create something from nothing. stories that we cant live but we can tell. you're not empty because you have stories in your head, people knocking on the walls of your skull, whispers in your ear, tell my story and let me die. tell my story and let me die. lily is choking on smoke, ananke is lost, david is tired, verona wants you to kill her. james is bleeding out on a killing floor. somewhere, a war is going on. stop and breathe. and you owe it to them.  its okay to sit on your bed and cry. it means you still have something to lose. stop and breathe. remember, there is always something you can lose. stories, remember your stories. everyone was dead the moment you thought you were empty and they are still losing. there is a balance to the world, even the one in your head. the dead have nothing to lose. so stop and breathe. its okay to be tired, its okay to feel defeated. stories are supposed to take a piece of you. just stop and breathe, its okay to cry, take it a word at a time. tell how they began and how they ended and tell the how of everything. tell why and tell who. give them names. give them away. theyre old stories made by an old you, and youre different now. youll always have something to lose. that is what reminds you that you are alive. make room, its okay now. make room for new stories, where love lives and sadness fades. bury your dead. stop and breathe. 

i just legitimately whimpered i fucking hate everything

“Awesome.” Dean grins. “It’s like an angel booty call.”

You are funny and kind and gentle and full of compassion. You were there when I took my first shot of whiskey, full of regret and anger and sadness, and kept me from falling into the bottle. So, all I want is for you to stand up for yourself and keep going strong, working towards your dream. I'll be here if you ever need someone who really believes it when they tell you that you can do it, definitely.

All I hope is that you'll remember one day, the time I called you when my dog died, crying while you were on the other end of the line, staying with me until I found the strength to hang up. I lost the one thing that would always stay with me no matter what and I guess I thought you could be my anchor. But you're human; you have your dreams and your life and your loves and I don't blame you. But I just hope you'll remember one day that once you were all I had and teach me how to let go without breaking.

So she resumes her routine. She dreams, she wakes up, she dreams some more. She hopes that the line between dream and reality will blur and that for just one moment, she'll be happy in the real world, that the means to get it will flash before her eyes. In her daze, she drops all her books on the ground, her homework falling into a puddle. Sighing, she bends to retrieve all her things, shaking the water from her papers disdainfully. She feels someone beside her, helping her. A fellow classmate. He grins at her and tells her he didn't know that she daydreamed even while she walked. Snatching her soggy papers from his hand, she shoots him an indignant look and tells him that she was up late, studying. Muttering apologies to her, he offers to lend her his notes. As they bicker about the legibility of his messy scrawl, she smiles, thinking that even something small like this could become something greater.

Nao supposes it's the swindler in him that makes him seem so charming. After all, to be one, surely, it took a good deal of charisma to successfully pull off a con. She sighs, the memory of Akiyama taking her hand for a moment to show off his alleged signal-detecting device to the others in the qualifying round causing her to flush slightly. She imagines that if she never knew him and he attempted to con her, she would've fallen for his tricks even faster than usual, his suave manner of speaking, his handsome- Quickly waving the thought away with her hand, she plops down on her bed, hugging a pillow to her chest and glaring at her teddy bear, which was sitting innocently against her nightstand. Akiyama is brilliant, a genius, no doubt, a master of logic and reasoning and all that good stuff, but he is painfully unaware of emotions, she muses, sure, with his masters in psychology, he can tell what his opponent is thinking but he can't even figure out other people's feelings? Or maybe he does know, but is merely hiding the fact that he knows from her? She rolls around on her bed with her head buried in her pillow, her thoughts going on and on as she thinks, "Throwing around words like "I'll protect you" and "you've really grown stronger" and always giving me more credit than I think I deserve and trusting me more than anyone else (though that is understandable, seeing as how I've stuck with you throughout the game - that, too, is an indicator that I might like you, Akiyama-san!), even Fukunaga is getting jealous! You know how scary Fukunaga can get!" She remembers how shocked Akiyama was when she told him that Fukunaga has a crush on him. She chuckles quietly at the memory, his flustered face appearing before her. It never crossed my mind, he muttered. Cocking her head, she wonders why he had been so embarrassed. Three seconds later, she bolts up from her bed. What if he likes Fukunaga too? She laughs it off. Akiyama? Liking Fukunaga? Akiyama doesn't strike her as one who likes men- Then again, she stops laughing, Fukunaga is pretty much a woman. Suddenly, she feels unsure. She admits that there had been times when she was jealous of Fukunaga, of his confidence and beauty (she thinks, in the back of her mind, even when he was a man, he must've been prettier than her), of his intelligence, which could keep up Akiyama's and even help with strategy. She twiddles her thumbs, the possibility of them getting together suddenly very high to her. She doesn't do as much as Fukunaga to help. She tries to smile at the thought of her two nakama finding happiness with one another but it doesn't work. Her heart hurts when she thinks about it and it makes her feel guilty. It's selfish of her to want Akiyama for herself and not allow her friend to try to get him, right? After all, they're much better suited, she tells herself. He always had to carefully explain his plans to her, the straggler who couldn't quite keep up with the pace of the game like the others. She looks down at her hands. She's just a burden in the end, with her inability to deceive and lie. She sniffs, tears inevitably coming. Despite her determination to always be honest, she can't help but hate it a bit for being such a great flaw of hers. Even now she can't lie to herself. She doesn't have a chance. The thought is enough to make her burst into tears at the predicament she realizes she's in. As soon as she begins to cry, however, her doorbell rings. Rubbing the tears away, she glances at the clock. It's nearly 1 AM. "Who could that be?" She murmurs. Looking through the peephole, she squints. The hallway outside is dark so she can barely tell who it is. Her eyesight adjusts and a gasp escapes her throat. She turns and leans her back against the door, her hand on her heart as if trying to keep it from pounding out of her chest. What was Akiyama doing at her apartment this late? Taking a deep breath and wiping her eyes once more just in case, she grasps the doorknob and turns it. "Akiyama-san, what are you doing here so late?" She doesn't bother to hide any emotion, surprise, anxiety. "Sorry, did I wake you?" He asks, his hands shoved deep in his pockets. She shakes her hand. "No," she steps aside, "please come inside, Akiyama-san." He complies and takes off his shoes, moving into her living room. "Do you want something to drink?" He looks dazed. It scares her a little. "Akiyama-san?" Blinking, he turns toward her. "What? Oh, no thank you." Sitting down, she watches him carefully. "Are you alright?" She can practically see the gears in his head turning, trying to find the appropriate answer, predicting her reply, probably the entire conversation. There's something he wants to say, she can feel it. That's the only reason why he would be so silent for so long. "Is it the Liar Game?" She tries to coax an answer out of him. "You have no reason to be nervous about that, Akiyama-san." She gives him a smile. "You always find a way to get us out of whatever mess we find ourselves in." She catches him staring at her and he begins to move toward her. Suddenly, she's feeling very nervous. "W-what is it, Akiyama-san?" Her hands fly to her face. "Ah, did I miss a spot of facial cream?" Looking up at him, she sees something strange, an emotion that she has seldom seen, the expression he puts on at the ends of the rounds, when he no longer has to be cunning and ruthless. It is soft and tired and sad. He is close enough for her to feel his body heat. Unconsciously, she leans toward him. "You," his voice is hoarse, "have always believed in me. Why?" She knows what he's thinking. "Why not?" She countered innocently. "I'm a bad person." He mutters. Her heart drops every time she hears him say it. "I've tricked countless people, ruined their lives-" "Didn't I say it before?" She says quietly. "Akiyama-san is warm. Even though people see you as someone to be feared, I know that you are a kind and trustworthy person. You decided to help even a person like me." She gives him a reassuring smile. "A bad person doesn't go and do that." She knows that he doesn't believe it himself so she's made it a point to tell him at every appropriate time. "Trustworthy, huh?" He lets out a weak laugh. "I don't deserve that kind of trust." "Akiyama-san," she pulls away and reaches up to his shoulders, forcing him down to eye level, "what's wrong?" They both know what's wrong. They know that he is thinking that he is like Yokoya, that it's killing him on the inside every moment he thinks about it. It used to make her cry but now, it just makes her determined to make him see otherwise. His tired owlish eyes blink at her and his lips curl into a small smile. "You've got that expression on." She changes her expression to one of confusion. "The one you get when you're about to start one of your rants about honesty and friendship." She lets go of him and touches her face once more. "Do I really make such expressions?" She muttered to herself. She feels a hand on her cheek. "You're one of the easiest people to read." He teases. In her head, she protests. Akiyama-san, she says to him mentally, you have no idea. She looks up at him, his hand still on her cheek. They sit like that in silence for a while before either of them speaks. "I have a question." "Hm?" She notes that he has yet to remove himself from her. "Am I...", she pauses and summons all the courage to ask him this one question, "a nuisance to you? And Fukunaga-san?" He stares at him, hard, probing her for what's going on in her head. "What makes you say that?" She sifts through possible answers. Her lack of intelligence and skills in deception, her overly altruistic deeds that are plunging them deeper in debt, and, she gulps the lump in her throat, the fact that Fukunaga and Akiyama make a much better duo than Akiyama and Nao. "I-I'm just...asking." She manages to stammer out. She braces herself for his reply. "Of course not." He replies simply. "In fact, you're an integral part of the team." Her heart skips a beat as she lets out a sigh of relief; she didn't even realize she was holding her breath. "What made you ask?" She laughs, waving her hands. "Ah, you know, what with Fukunaga-san and his crush on you," wait, did she just mention Fukunaga's crush to Akiyama, "I was just thinking that maybe," she plays with the hem of her nightshirt, her voice trailing off, "you two would be better off without me." She makes the effort to deliberately avert her eyes from his, but she knows it's a lost cause. Amazingly, he catches on to what she meant. "You think...", there is a hint of amusement and bewilderment in his voice, "that I like Fukunaga?" She can see him staring at her incredulously. "He's a guy!" She becomes flustered. "W-well, he's practically a woman and he's really smart-" "He's a cold liar." Akiyama interrupts. "I'm surprised you have such a high opinion of him." By the look on his face, she can tell that he actually isn't. She's careful not to answer with a "he's like you" because Akiyama is not a cold liar. "Fukunaga-san doesn't need to be taken care of." Like me, she thinks. "I don't like Fukunaga." He says bluntly, staring straight into her eyes. "You can almost say that I dislike him." She is silent for a moment before she lets out a quiet "oh". "He'll be heartbroken." He scoffs. "I doubt it. If what you say is true," he stops her before she can say anything, "and I will give you the benefit of the doubt, as always, he's much too proud to show any kind of weakness." In their silence, she begins to feel relief. He watches her quietly. "You know," he murmurs, "despite the kind of person I am, I admire honest people a lot more than deceitful ones." He moves to sit on her bed. "Which is why I said that you're important to the team." She looks down and shakes her head. "You give me too much credit, Akiyama-san." "Listen," she looks up, "you really are important. It is easy to bribe people with money, blackmail them and trap them psychologically, but to sway their hearts, that's a whole other entity." He leans forward. "That's what you're best at." She cocks her head. "To sway people's hearts, huh?" She murmurs, before looking back at Akiyama. "Then, did I reach your heart too?" He is a bit taken back and it amuses her. "Ah, well..." He looks embarrassed. It is enough. She smiles widely. "Thank you, Akiyama-san, for making me feel a lot better." She laughs. "Just as I said, you really are a wonderful person." It seems like that was enough for him. "Thank you." "For what?" He looks away before speaking. "For always being by my side." He murmured sheepishly. Her smile widens. "Thank you for letting me." She hopes that, judging by the very very slight blush on his cheeks, she really does have a chance.

The man scrambled backwards, broken glass cutting into his hands, his back hitting a brick wall with a resounding thump. He began to whimper as a shadow loomed over him. "P-please, please, don't-" "You can beg all you want." The figure said, slowly walking toward him with measured steps, well aware that the man was cornered. Tears spouted from the man's eyes, pathetic sobs erupting from his throat as he felt his demise approaching him. "No one will come save you." He could only cower in fear. The figure stopped. The glint of a gun appeared from the man's coat. "Do you have anything to say?" The man was frozen with fear but managed to shake his head. "Good answer." The crack of a gunshot rang out, echoing throughout the city. - He understands obedience. He remembers walking into a dark room, surrounded by men, the type he knew to avoid eye contact with on the street, the type he knew you couldn't pickpocket without narrowly escaping with your life. He remembers nearly choking on the cigarette smoke. The man in the middle of the room, sitting in a chair, beckoned him over. He looked almost kind, far less threatening the others around him, but he had an overpowering presence, as if his charisma could suffocate a person. "Boy," he drawled, "I saved your hide." He gulped his fear and steadied his voice. "Yes, thank you very much, sir." "Now," he continued, stumping out his cigar in an ashtray beside him, "how will you repay me?" He knew this was a crucial moment. He had to answer carefully, otherwise, his life would go south fast. "I am a fast learner, sir." He said, looking him straight in the eye. "I can become a useful asset." The man tapped his temple thoughtfully. "You may be right there. After all," he extracted a wallet from his pocket and tossed it on the ground, "you managed to pickpocket one of my men without him even realizing it." One of the men standing by suddenly began patting his pockets and sheepishly went to pick it up. James allowed himself a small smirk. "Very well." The man said after much deliberation. "I can see some use in you. I will take you in on one condition." "What, sir?" "Pledge your loyalty to me." He declared. Then he added, "And be aware of the consequences of betraying me." Without hesitation, he did. He remembers, out of the corner of his eye, standing in the doorway, a young girl with wide curious eyes, her hair tumbling down her shoulders. Like rain, he mused as he promised his freedom to the boss of a powerful mafia. - She understands loneliness. She had always been sheltered. She didn't have many friends and her closest friend was the elderly man who drove her around when she wanted to go somewhere. She was isolated, separated from the world by a wall of bodyguards. She hated it. But when she saw the boy who was brought in to see her father, only then did she understand loneliness. The boy was most likely an orphan and, judging by his tattered clothes, a thief, and a proficient one at that, to have drawn her father's attention. She watched the entire exchange, her eyes glued to the boy, captivated by his lovely hollow eyes. To her, he was the loneliest thing in the world. To give yourself to another person, leaving you with nothing, she thought, to be empty, that's the greatest type of loneliness. When she heard him pledging his obedience to her father, a strange pain shot up from her stomach. It scared her. For some reason, those words left her with a feeling of dread. As if he had just sold his soul. - She thinks it's her eyes. She has her father's eyes and sometimes she hates it. It scares some people, who see them and are reminded of him. It's a sort of stigma she unwilling carries. So when he sees her eyes, it's understandable that he would have the same reaction. Obey her every word, as if it was her father speaking to him, controlling him like a puppet master. But he admits to her, many years after the first time she saw him, that it was nothing like that. Her eyes were different to him. Warm and alive like shifting smoldering ashes, unlike the hard cold grey of her father's, like granite and coal. She teased him, saying that she had never thought he was so poetic but those words, they made her feel less alone.

He seldom hears her anymore. Nowadays, her voice is layered with the crackle of radio static, the desert winds whistling in the background and fatigue. It is so foreign to him that it worries him. While she's away, he doesn't hear that voice very often though. Sometimes, he thinks that it's because she doesn't want him to worry about her. As if he would ever not worry about her. He leans back in his chair as the computer chirps at him with various high-pitched beeps and clicks. Glancing up, a robotic eye stares down at him. He looks back down. He understood when she told him why she joined the service. He had met plenty of people who were searching for someone from their past, to reunite, to exact revenge, to remember. She looked so tired, so bitter when he first met her. Cautiously, she had approached him - he was only a recruiter at the time - and asked if she could join, her small hands fumbling with a flower pin. He remembers thinking, as he asked her preliminary questions, that she wouldn't make it. She had looked so weak, almost fragile, he thought it was only luck that allowed her to live. Curious, he watched her as she and others vying for a job at Hermes Messenger Service went through the tests. Endurance, agility, defense. One by one, they were dismissed, too incompetent to be a courier. To his amazement, she remained as others left, her tiny body trembling and drenched with sweat, struggling to remain upright, the flower pin holding her hair out of her face. Breathing heavily, she listened intently to the instructor before each task and without hesitation, set off to accomplish each one. She caught him staring as the break began. He blinked and turned away, sheepish. Before he knew it, she was in front of him, wiping the sweat off her forehead. "How am I doing?" She asked. He stared at her for a moment before looking around. "You asking me?" She scowled. "No one else around you." He straightened, feeling uncomfortable under her unwavering gaze. "You're doing very well." "You think I'll get in?" She looked at the still remaining contestants, sounding rather unsure. He observed them as well. They were clearly out of breath and nearly all of them were sitting down, rubbing their sore muscles. She was still standing, albeit probably incredibly tired. He wasn't sure if it was because she wasn't tired or if it was out of pride. Even if it were pride, to live up to one's own standards took a good deal of effort and determination. "Why do you want this job?" He asked her. She looked up at him with a questioning look. "What does that have to do with anything?" He shrugged. "I'm curious." He caught her rolling her eyes. "What is it with people wanting to know about everyone's life?" She muttered, kicking the dirt as she stretched out her leg. Pulling off her pin, she rubbed the flower before putting it back on. He stared at her. "So it's not the employee insurance?" She grinned, the first hint of emotion he saw on her face. "That too, I suppose." "Yeah." He finally answered, nodding. "You'll get in." Surprise was evident on her face but she quickly hid it, coughing. "Thanks." She murmured, sounding embarrassed. The sound of a horn signaled the end of the break. "Good luck." He said. She nodded, looking revitalized. "What's your name?" He blurted out, as she turned to go to the testing area. A smile was still on her face when she turned back to him. "Think of a name for me by the time I get in." She called, confidence clear in her voice. She became the newest courier of the Hermes Messenger Service. He helped her as she was training, teaching her the routes of the couriers and caravans and helping her memorize the major cities. He instructed her as she practiced with her firearms and weapons. He found every way possible to be near her. It was a selfish desire of his to know what drove her. He supposes that in the process, he would have eventually fallen in love with her. But it was then when he realized that what drove her was what prevented her from seeing anything else. "There's someone I'm looking for." She finally answered him after a year or two of knowing him. Of all places, it was while she's in bed with him. What a mood killer, he thought as he traced circles on the curve of her hip. "I'm sorry." She added, almost as an afterthought. "Why are you sorry?" He asked, laughing it away. "We've all got something we have to do." "I'm going rogue." She said abruptly. He stiffened. "I'm leaving and I'm not coming back until I find this person." "Oh" was all he could say. What else could he say? It wasn't like they were lovers or anything, he thought bitterly. She turned over so they were face to face. Her unwavering eyes stared into his uncertain ones. "I know this is selfish of me," she whispered with what sounded like sadness in her voice, "but can you watch my back when I go? Be my eyes and ears in the sky?" "Wait," he propped his head up on his arm, "so you drop this load of information on my head, in the most appropriate time and place of course, tell me that you're leaving and might not come back maybe ever, and expect me to help you, maybe even risk my own ass?" "I told you it was selfish." Her voice was muffled due to the pillow she shoved in her face. "But I need you." He blinked. "Say that again." She pulled the pillow off her face. "What?" "That thing you just said." She blinked back at him. "I need you." She repeated, as if it were the most innocent phrase that could be uttered in the world. In that moment, she sounded like the shy girl she was when he first met her, awkward and unsure of her feelings but brutally honest, not someone ready to set off on her own to chase after the ghosts of her past. He leaned over and kissed her and he remembers how smooth and soft her skin was before she left. To hide her desertion from the service, they agreed that she would continue her courier duties, checking in every once in a while so that he could manipulate the information to deceive the system. He went to see her off the morning she was to leave, the sunrise bright against the mountain horizon. "Wish me luck." She said quietly, avoiding his eyes. He was silent for a moment before speaking. "Ananke." A genuine smile grew on her lips when she remembered the words she said to him the day she became a courier. "That's a good name." She whispered, her voice cracking. "You'll find him." He said with conviction. "Hold me to it," she nodded at him, turning to leave, "Chronos." And so far, he has not seen her since. But he's comforted by the fact that she's getting closer. "Time doesn't last forever for everyone." He said to the robotic eye. "But it does for the inevitable."

    I'll think of you.     Love has always been a tricky thing. No one is particularly good at explaining it; it's always very vague, fluffed up with pretty words and metaphors. It's a little like the way politics and propaganda work, with grand gestures that really mean nothing if you think about it.     So when I think of you, I try to be careful not to say that I "like" you. I say that you're my friend, that I care about you as a friend, that I love you...as a friend. It's easy for me to say things like "he's a huge asshole" and "I want to punch him in the face sometimes" because those are all the truth. You are a jackass and you don't hide it and if I knew you in real life, I'd probably avoid you with every fiber of my being.     But the truth is, you're like me. We're not nice people and we certainly don't try to be the nicest people on the planet. Talking to you was always a little surreal because you sound so much like me, with all the insecurity and the angst that most people would probably laugh at. Sometimes, it's so easy to put up a strong front, but to reveal who you really are on the inside, that takes a lot of courage.     I don't want to say that I love you, because I'm pretty sure I don't. Either that or I have reservations about liking a jerkface I've never actually met, whom I also want to toss out of a building. But it's easy to think about you. At my age, I've got a pretty narrow world and everything about you is pretty much outside of it.     So I worry. I worry about you and how you are and how you are with your friends and I worry some more because I'm afraid you don't tell me the truth. I think that's the thing with these kinds of friendships, or any friendships for that matter. It's hard to figure out when someone's lying to you, especially if they're not talking to you face to face and even if they're talking to you face to face. All relationships are tricky things; trust shouldn't be given away so easily but without doing so, it's impossible to make friends. So I decided that you could be trusted. I hope that you don't betray me in the end.     Nowadays, I'm afraid I'll forget. You know the feeling? When you think about something so much, it gets worn out and faded, like your favorite stuffed animal. Then the details start disappearing and before you know it, you've forgotten why it's your favorite. So I write it down, the things about you that I thought was worth remembering. It makes me feel a bit like a creepy internet stalker, but I value our friendship enough to try to remember the important things.     Like how you're super obsessive over your teeth.     How you wrote poetry sometimes, which I thought was adorable and man, that was an awkward conversation.     Or how you get super depressed or super happy when you're drunk (and then I get the honor of dealing with it once in a while; I think I handled it quite well though by directing you to call your ~best friend forever~).     Oh, and that one time you were singing and nearly asked to call me (thinking back, thank god I don't have Verizon, that would've been super incredibly awkward).     Oh dammit, I've already started to forget.     Well, I have plenty of things to remind me of you, I'm sure. Besides, it's not like I could remember everything anyway. Friendship's not about living in the past. It's living in the present! Thinking about the future! What a lovely thought that is.     So now you're off doing your thing and I'm here wondering what I'm going to do. Still worrying, still thinking. I hope that you'll come back safe; not just for me, but for all of your friends and family. I know you used to say that you think that no one cares about you, but a lot of people do and you shouldn't ever take that for granted. That's another thing I want to punch you in the face for. Ungrateful motherfu-     Yeah. Some days I think I like you a lot, some days I think I'm stupid for thinking it. In the end, I'm pretty sure nothing will happen; best case scenario: we stay friends and you end up one day buying me a beer. But even that, I'm looking forward to the prospect of it happening.

    He grabbed her arm, his green eyes dark and cold when he looked at her. “Your priority is to live.” They heard the attacker groan as he struggled to stand, the sound of the rough static of a two-way radio in his hand catching their attention. More men were converging at their location. With that, he shoved her behind him, towards the end of the alley. “Go!”                                     She wanted to stay, but when another shot rang out, the adrenaline kicked in and she found herself running as fast as she could. Behind her, she could hear as more people arrived at the alley, bullets ricocheting off the metal trash cans and fire escapes. Even when she heard the shots stop, even when she heard a strangled cry amongst the sirens of police cars and ambulances driving past her, she didn’t stop. Stop running and go back, help him, she screamed in her mind, he’s outnumbered, he’s going to die. He’s going to die. She ran faster. He’s going to die alone. The wind was burning her eyes as she ran, that’s what she told herself. You don’t cry for killers.   “What if they’re trying to save you?” she heard in the back of her mind. “What if you-“ She told herself to stop thinking.     “Verona.” He breathed. She sat up straight. She barely heard his voice. Grasping onto the rail, she leaned forward.     “James.” She tried to speak as evenly as possible.     He didn’t even open his eyes. “Go home.”     “No.” He wasn’t in the condition to go along with their usual banter. “You aren’t safe here,” then he added, “and I’m pretty sure you weren’t escorted here.”     She didn’t answer. He shifted in the bed, turning his head towards her and cracking open an eye.     “You aren’t hurt, are you?”     She looked away, scoffing. “Here you are, lying in a hospital and looking like a piece of Swiss cheese, and you’re asking me if I’m okay?” “A simple yes would have sufficed. No need to insult me.” He said jokingly, letting out a weak laugh.     She bit her lip, hating how he didn’t seem to care about his well-being. He had never gotten hurt, not like this. Not enough to land himself in a hospital in need of surgery. He never got himself in the kind of situation he found himself in that day. “The police have been taken care of.” She informed him. He closed his eyes and settled back in the bed.     “You didn’t really need to. I wasn’t able to hit any of those other guys. That made it easier for me to look like a victim only acting in self defense. They didn’t even check my gun.” He muttered. “Good thing, since the last thing we need is more media coverage than usual.”     She fell silent.     “I didn’t think they would get me this bad.” He continued, glancing at his wounds. “Luckily, they hit my right arm instead of my left. That wouldn’t do me any good if-“     “You almost died.” She managed to choke out, her voice finally cracking. He opened his eyes. “You almost died, James.” She repeated angrily, louder this time. “You don’t-that’s not how you do things. You don’t screw up. You wouldn’t. You don’t know how. You can’t.”     “Everyone makes mistakes.” He said matter-of-factly with a hint of uncertainty, trying to figure out why she was so upset.     She jabbed her finger at him, careful not to actually hit him. “You don’t make these kinds of mistakes. The ones that can get you killed.”     “Verona-“     “What were you thinking, just charging in there like a fool-“     “Hey, Vero-“     “-You were outnumbered and came with no one to back you up and didn’t even-“Her voice was rising in volume and her hands were gesticulating wildly.     “Verona.” He said with as much firmness as his voice allowed.     She stopped abruptly, dropping her hands onto her lap. “What?” She said softly, so softly it surprised him.     “Things like this will happen.” He murmured. “There’s nothing anyone can do about it.”     She wanted to believe him.     “Go home, Verona.” He repeated. “You need to rest. Talk to your father and-“     “No.” She said stubbornly.     He sighed exasperatedly. “You can’t stay here.”     He felt her cold hands grasp on to his. He looked her in the eye and saw her determination. He sighed once more.     “As soon as I fall asleep, you leave.” It was an order, if anything. Not like she would obey it anyway though, he thought tiredly. She nodded solemnly, reaching up to tug on the string, the light flickering off. He turned away and closed his eyes. He felt something smooth fall on his arm. Glancing down, he saw Verona laying her head against his arm. He set his head back down. She could feel his hand clench in pain, trying not to hold on to her hand too tightly. It must have taken hours for him to fall asleep. Under her breath, she sang a lullaby. She felt him stroke her hand with his thumb, each stroke syncing the tempo of her song. Tracing the calluses on his hands, she thought of how many people he had killed. Probably countless, she thought, with his bare hands. The faint smell of gunpowder still lingered on his hand. Now, his hand held hers gently, almost lovingly. He stroked the bones of her hand, thin and delicate, like a bird’s. As she reached the end, like a hypnotist, she slowed his movements to a stop. She stayed beside him as he fell into a dreamless sleep.     Lifting her head, she tried to convince herself that it was his job. It was his job to be good, be perfect at anything assigned to him. This was just another job he was doing. That was all it meant to him. A task meant to be finished. A target meant to be protected. That’s what she told herself.     “I’ll give you my life too.” She whispered. He didn’t know what she meant but it comforted him all the same.

    Ah," Mark smiled, "I'm honored you know my name."     She seated herself on one of the stools, sweeping her cloak out behind her. "Don't give yourself so little credit." She looked around and scowled at the people staring at her. "I need to talk to you privately."     "Of course, of course!" He waved at them with his rag. "Give us a moment." They reluctantly scattered to the tables, away from the counter. "What brings you here?" Would you like a drink? Some moonshine?"     "I'm not too keen on losing my wits anytime soon." She glanced warily at a glass, the slightly murky liquid sitting innocently beside her arm. "The way people drink this swill, you probably slipped some highly addictive drugs in it."     He laughed as a few customers rushed to the restroom, knocking their glasses over in their haste. "Gotta find a way to keep them coming." He straightened, crossing his arms over his chest. "Now what can I do for you?"     She looked over her shoulder before continuing. "There's someone I'm looking for." She pulled out a photo and slid it over to him. "I'd like to ask you if you've seen this person."  Picking it up, he stared at it hard and nodded slowly.     "Mmmhm. I've seen this person." He said, tapping it as the recognition slowly dawned upon him. "Yeah, he left an impression on me."     "Did he by any chance tell you where he was planning to go?"     He shook his head. "No." He answered, his voice tinged with regret, as he cleaned some glasses. "He was a friendly guy, y'know? It's strange to meet people like that, real talkative and optimistic." He looked around. "Most people these days are down on their luck, looking for a way out."     She took in every word he said, her brow scrunched in concentration. "What kind of things did he say?"     "He talks like me, a bit." He chuckled. "Talked about his travels. How he just wanders, with no real destination. Knows how to say a lot of words without saying anything at all, y'know what I'm talking about?" He set his rag down and looked at her, taking in her features. "You and him are the same." He smiled. "Sharp, but tired eyes. Eyes that have seen too much. A cold killer's eyes, you might say."     He saw her eye twitch as she brought her hand up to her pin, taking it off and re-pinning her hair. "Don't compare me to that man." She muttered darkly. Then she added, "Then wouldn't you say that you're the same? A trader who has been to so many places in this broken country?"     "Ah, but the difference is," he said, looking past her, "I never involved myself in the affairs of the one of the shadiest groups in the wasteland."     Her eyes narrowed, glaring at nothing.     He held his hands up. "Sorry. Just telling it like it is."     A few moments later, she stood up, checking her pocket watch. "Well, thank you for your assistance." She said as she turned to leave.     "Wait." She stopped, her hand on the counter. "Want my opinion?"     She looked over her shoulder. "Sure."     "Keep doing what you've been doing." He said, taking up his rag again. "The way he talked, it sounded like he was waiting for something to happen." He looked up. "Or maybe someone to catch up with him."     She adjusted her holster and looked him in the eye. "Waiting for someone, huh?"     "Humor me, kid." Mark said, curiosity peaking for the first time in years. "I won't ask you why you're looking for that guy, I can tell it's personal, but I will ask you this. What's your business with Hermes?"     For a moment, she looked far older than him. The dark bags under her eyes made her look bitter. She looked so tiny under the huge cloak, as if it were a burden she had to carry. "I'm a courier." She answered simply. "But it is not I who works for them."     "You mean-"     She gave him a weary but determined smile. "I have a message for that man."     He smiled, satisfied with the answer. "Good luck then, Ananke."     Drawing up her hood, she nodded at him. "Thank you."     "And get some rest." He advised, his attention returning to his bar. "It won't do you any good if you're on the verge of exhaustion."     Taking her silence as an affirmation, he bid her goodnight. Mark waited a few minutes after she left before he turned to the last customer left in the bar, who had been listening intently. He closed his eyes and shook his head. "You were almost found out." He called.     The customer looked up and a shadow of a grin flickered across his face. "Yeah, that was a close one. She probably would've known I was here, if she wasn't so tired." He paused for a moment. "Why didn't you sell me out?"     He leaned on the counter, looking at the door. "She's got determination, that one. Got a hint of the Western dialect. That's a long way from home." Looking back at the man, he grinned. "I want to know what happens when she finally catches up with you. I can feel a great story stirring up."     The man lifted his glass to his lips, hiding a smile. "Ananke, huh?"     "Interesting name." He commented, the glasses in his hands tinkling as he set them down to dry. "What's it mean to you?"     He stood, the falcon stitched on his sleeve visible. "Ananke, the goddess of fate, destiny, inevitability." He explained. "Her handler in the ranks, Chronos, god of time." He shook his head and let out a quiet chuckle. "They thought they pulled out the big guns."     "You're not worried?"     "Oh, I'm worried. More than you can imagine." He said lightheartedly. "Hermes thinks it's just a job for her. They think she'll get it done down to the T. But I know better." Sitting down at the bar, he twirled a desert lily pin with his fingers, smiling as the shiny metal flower glinted in the dim light of the bar. "She's got a score to settle with me."

    One such place was The Old Still, a bar opened by Mark, an old trader who decided to settle down after years of travel. Old World memorabilia decorated the tacky wallpapered walls, mounted heads of long extinct animals, silly slogans for products that only existed in name, faded and signed pictures of famous, now obscure, celebrities. His establishment was well-liked by the regulars and he was known to be a generally nice guy, so visitors of the Station never hesitated to drop by and have a drink of his famous moonshine, which everyone was willing to drink as long as they were not told what was in it. Little did they know, the moonshine had a hint of truth serum in it to loosen lips, the means by which Mark collected secrets. But most of all, they stayed to listen to his stories, the experiences he had when he was traveling around the country to provide supplies to all the settlements.     He spoke of snowy towns nestled high up in the mountains, people who had devolved to tribals and cannibals, cities that still had bright flashing neon signs, forests teeming with wildlife, treasures found in the most unexpected places. He would gesture to the walls, pointing out the things he had picked up along the way. It was beautiful and exciting to the travelers, who had traveled nowhere in comparison to him. The world had once been so accessible to everyone, but after the collapse, the world had shrunk once again. With the rumors of the remnants of technology that could bring people from the opposite ends of the ocean together lying in undiscovered territory, people wanted to see for themselves what was beyond their street, to bring their world back to its former glory. His stories ignited their souls, rekindled their desire to see what they could find in the unknown.     Mark, a rather heavy-set man now, leaned against the counter, wiping an imaginary stain with a dirty rag. The loose ceiling fan spun lazily, casting second-long shadows on the patrons. He stroked his beard. "Ah, but the story of the mysterious wanderer is my favorite of all."     The travelers leaned forward, eager to listen to a story of someone much like themselves.     "Hermes Messenger Service." He began. "It emerged from the ruins of this country as a way for people like us to communicate. It was unlike any other. The efficiency of its business was unmatched and no one could understand how it worked." He thought for a moment before continuing. "People, including myself, speculated that they had acquired some of the Old World technology and used it to create their network of couriers.     That, however, is not the most intriguing part. There are rumors of a traveler who bears the mark of the Hermes Messenger Service on their sleeve. However, the strangest thing, the traveler does not wear the uniform of the service, nor do they follow the normal routes of the couriers. They come and go as they please, dropping off packages and picking new ones up every once in a while. They do not follow the code of the service. This courier carries the name, Ananke."     He stopped as the door opened. A small cloaked figure entered, their face hidden under a cloak. The travelers turned to look as well. Mark smiled. "Ah, it seems we have a legend in our midst."     Dropped her hood, Ananke nodded at him, the patch on her sleeve visible. "Nice story." She said dryly.     He bowed his head as if in apology. "We could all use a bit of myth and legend in our lives."     Her boots clicked against the wooden floor as she walked over to the bar. People quickly made room for her. "I assume you're the famous Mark?"

   The desert wind pelted the courier with sand and bits of rock as she trekked across the harsh environment, the moon glowing dimly above her, its light obscured by the sandy winds. The symbol of the Hermes Messenger Service, a falcon in flight, was sewn on her sleeve. The sand was stuck in the ridges of her ears, sprinkled in her hair. Her cloak protected her from most of it, but it could not improve visibility. Ducking behind a short plateau, she pulled down her hood, shaking her head wildly like a wet dog. Running a hand through her hair, she procured an old radio from her pocket.     "Hermes command, come in." She murmured, re-pinning her hair and brushing sand off her ears.     Sticking her head out from behind the short cliff, the courier looked through her binoculars, trying to spot a settlement past the wide expanse of the desert. Cursing under her breath, she wished for night optics.     "Hermes command, come in, over."     Static erupted from the radio. "State your name and task." A robotic voice demanded.     "Ananke," she moved to pull her bag out from under her cloak, and took out the contents, a carefully wrapped package, to read the label, "task #3782."     There was a brief pause. "Confirmed. What do you need, courier?"     "Patch through Chronos." She replied, tucking the package back into her bag.     A minute passed. "Chronos here." A rather chipper voice called. "It's a pleasant surprise to hear from you, Ananke."     "I need to know where the closest settlement is from my location." She said, ignoring his comment. "Visibility is low and I don't want to freeze to death here."     "Hello to you too." He grumbled as clicks and beeps were heard in the background. "Alright, where are you?"     Setting the radio down, she untied her map from her side and spread it out, holding it down with a few rocks. She ran her finger across the map, trying to remember her route. She peered over her cover northward and saw through her binoculars several peaks on the horizon. "I'm directly south of the Gasteau mountains."     There was silence. "That narrows it down to about 5 by 15 inch wide strip of a 30 by 15 inch wide map." He waited for a response. "...You don't know where you are?"     "No." She admitted.     He sighed loudly, the radio crackling with noise. "Alright, give me your movements."     "About," she glanced at her pocket watch, "two hours ago, I was in Sagebrush. I headed due west from there but there was a mishap-"     "Mishap?"     She shrugged. "The usual. Some vagrants trying to rob me. One of them managed to get their hands on some dynamite so I ran like a bat out of hell. I've got an outdated map, but I remember passing this old building that I think is on the current maps, the one that has all these broken machines and solar arrays scattered around it..."     "Did you get them off your tail?"     She scanned her map once more, noting the mountains on the map. "Yeah."     "You killed them?"     "No. Thankfully, they didn't really know how to kill other people with dynamite."     "Are you hurt?" Sometimes she thinks that Chronos is the epitome of concern.     She rolled her eyes. "Just tell me where to go and I'll be fine."     "Alright...," he said with uncertainty, "so the old building, you said? I think...yeah, I think I have your general location." She could hear the blips of a computer. "Okay, you're going to want to head about three klicks southwest and you should be somewhere near the Station."     She marked the location on her map. "Thanks, Chronos." She went to shut off her radio.     "Hold on!" He called with such force that the static sounded more like a firecracker. "I want to talk to you."     "Now's not a good time." She answered, exasperated.     He sighed. "I just want to ask you how you're doing."     She sat with her back against the cool rock. Pulling out her .357 magnum from its holster, she began to pick the sand out of its ridges. The wind howled over her head. "I'm alright." She answered softly.     "Having you been eating enough?"     "Yeah."     "Getting your sleep?"     She rubbed her eyes, ignoring the puffy bags under them. "Uh huh."     "Taking in enough nutrients and water?"     "I'm not a plant."     She could almost hear him scowling. "Stop being a smart-ass. Are you?"     "Yes, I am."     He was silent for a moment. "Any leads?"     She looked down. "Some."     "Yeah?"     "Someone in the 167 trading post told me that they saw someone matching the description heading toward the Station." Subconsciously, she rubbed the desert lily pin in her hair. "I'll make the delivery and ask around there."     He began to say something but stopped himself. The computers overseeing the conversations in the hub raised red flags when certain words were said. He didn't want to risk it over an unsecured line. Especially when all she's got is this piece of shit radio, he thought. "Alright, well, if you're up to it, visit one of the offices there and pick up another package for delivery when you're done."     "Will do."     "Don't hesitate to contact me, alright?"     "Got it."     "And Ananke?"     "Yeah?"     "Be careful."     "Roger." Shutting the radio off, she wrapped herself in the cloak and set off toward the Station, a lone figure braving the buffeting sandy storms.

    But he is glad to go this way. "It's my time," he manages to say shakily. He did something good for once. The contents of his pockets have spilled out, a first aid kit his comrade slipped him before he left. "You don't need to suffer." He had told him. "Do what you have to do."     The syringe of morphine looks inviting but he can't bring himself to use it. He can feel himself slipping out of consciousness, his death close. But his heart jolts as he blinks hard, seeing the blurry outline of a figure out of the corner of his eye.     "You followed me all the way out here?" He whispers. She hears him. He closes his eyes as she turns. "Don't want you disappearing on me at a time like this." He murmurs, halfheartedly joking, as he hears her footsteps coming closer, his voice weak from the pain.     Her footsteps stop in front of him.     He opens his eyes.     He has forgotten, forgotten that she is dead, that it hurts to remember her, that he never wanted to be haunted by a ghost chained to the world by his own guilt. He has forgotten that the moment he sees her, he will be gone.     The dim lights of the corridor illuminate her figure. She looks older, her hair longer, her face thinner and more refined. A necklace from a far-off memory hangs around her neck. The hand against his cheek is smooth and warm. He is too tired to tell whether or not she is real.     Her eyes are grey like a cloudy sky of impending rain, like burned charcoal, like soft talc. Words finally come to him, the color flooding his mind. She smooths out her dress, setting her hands on her knees.     "You did good." She tells him with a smile on her face. In the corridor, her voice sounds hollow, but it is still more alive than the voice he remembers.     He smiles weakly back at her. "I'm really dying, huh?"     "It'll be over soon." She says reassuringly. Even though the morphine has been lying unused beside him, the pain has somehow lessened considerably.     "What was it like?" He asks her groggily. She gives him a questioning look. "Dying."     She sits down and thinks for a moment before answering, a cryptic smile on her lips. "It wasn't so bad."     He nods idly as the heavy silence falls over them, leaving only the sounds of his shallow breath in the air.     "I'm sorry." He breathes, his voice hitching in his throat. He tastes blood in the back of his throat. He forces himself to face her. "You shouldn't be dead."     She reaches out to him once more, her fingers grazing his forehead before resting on the side of his head. Her thumb brushing against his eye, she bites her lip and shakes her head.     "James," she sounds so sad, "I never blamed you."     Her voice is soft and clear, so tragically beautiful to his ears, more alive than ever, and it is enough. The backs of his eyes burn and a shaky breath escapes him. "I know." He remembers the day she died, how much she trusted him when she led his gun to her chest.     "Then why won't you let me go?" His vision is failing but in her voice, he can hear pleading desperation, as if it were him who was haunting her.      In his delirium, he tries to find the answer.     She continues, her voice suddenly sounding like an echo. He blinks as his eyesight fights to refocus. "It's a selfish thing to do." The night air is pins and needles on his skin. Looking down, he sees her inches away from him, his gun in his hand the only thing between them. The piercing silence of a sleeping city overwhelms him. A dog barks below them. She looks up at him.     Grey like a stormy sky.     "It's a cowardly thing to do.    "     Grey like burnt charcoal.     "But I just-," she chokes up for a moment as she buries her face in his shoulder, the cold metal of his gun pressed against her chest. He is moments away from pulling the trigger even though his heart is telling him not to do it.     Grey like the hot ashes of cigarettes.     "-don't want to die alone." He finds himself saying as he comes back to the cold corridor, the ghost of a memory he couldn't find.     He had forgotten that he understands loneliness.     "I didn't want to do it." He tells her, his voice breaking. "I didn't want to kill you."     "I know." Tears slip from her eyes. "I'm sorry."     She understands obedience.     "But I still did it, Verona." He reaches out and wipes away her tears. Her cheeks are pink and wet. She bows her head as he runs his hand through her hair.     "I never blamed you for that." She repeated, her voice muffled. "So don't blame yourself anymore."     He is too tired to admit that he loved her all along before he even knew it himself, that he had wished that he, instead of death, could have been the one to save her. Instead, he nods absentmindedly, stroking a lock of her hair.     As it becomes harder for him to breathe, she begins to sing him a soft lullaby, the one she sang to him in the hospital. He forgets and remembers all over again, everything.     He doesn't care if she's a ghost or just a figment of his imagination. Her hair is longer; there is a scar on her chest and a necklace he put on her grave resting on her collarbone. It is enough because she is all he has left, of her.     He breathes hard, blood now coming out only in trickles. "I miss you." It is the most he will ever be able to admit to her.     Her lips move but he can't hear what she's saying, her voice now only dull hums. He supposes it doesn't matter anymore.     He is glad to go this way, with her beside him.     "I won't be seeing you again." He mutters, feeling his energy draining, barely awake. He looks into her eyes for the last time, blurry orbs of grey, and hopes that the color will be the last thing he remembers.     "We're both sinners." She whispers as he finally closes his eyes. "We'll go together."