i'm a fuckin' wildcard

     “Monday evening. We’re meeting in the armory at seventeen hundred.”

    “Great.”

     “Oh. Well. Fuck it either way.”

     “So… I can write you down for the thing? Yes? Yes. Good. Fantastic. Less boring for me. Everyone wins.”

    “Doesn’t seem like I got much of a fuckin’ choice with ya beggin’ me like this.”

     “But I love hearing about how much of an exception I am.” 

     Trayson snickered, taking the prongs of his fork between his teeth, “You’re immune to any pout. Unless I guess it’s a chick who’s about to go down on you. Vice versa? Tomato, toe-mato. Tah-mato? Stupid fucking saying anyway. Who the fuck cares about a fucking vegetable pronunciation?”

    “Somethin’ like that.”

     “Well… Birdie… thief is my job title. So… depends which ones we’re talkin’ about. If I wasn’t, well me, I might be offended. See this?” He pointed at his face, circling it with his index finger, “This is the face of a pout coming on.”

    “Didn’t think I had to specify it was thieves that ain’t you.”

     “Dunno if I can promise but… you’re a resourceful gal.”

     “Suit yourself! This is about the only decent thing here anyway.” Trayson cut into his pie, eating a forkful as they made their way out of the cafeteria. “The job’s on Monday. Gotta secure some ammo from a convoy. Choi got a schedule from an asshole bounty hunter group that fucked with us before — took some of our shit — so we’re taking it back. Weaver used to be with them, had some intel.”

    “I think thieves deserve a little bombin’, don’t you?”

     “Oh. Well, I have one next week. I like you more than I like those fuckers. Not sure about the explosives though.” He glanced at her, breaking out into a grin, “Those could easily be optional.”

     Once they reached the cafeteria, Trayson led them toward the bakery counter, pausing in front of it to inhale deeply, “You’d think this place only served dog shit, right? Turns out Margot’s pie, man. Tsk. I can almost forget I spent the morning with bumbling idiots.” He stepped forward, glimpsing at the glass display case to the left of the screen, then punched a number into the panel, took out his phone to hold it up in front of the screen — PAYMENT ACCEPTED — a circular compartment rose up in the center of the counter, the transparent shield opening up to present him with his slice of pie on a plate. Trayson grabbed it and fished a fork from the canisters next to where his pie appeared, tossing a glance at Birdie, “You gettin’ anything? Probably not here though, right? More carnivore oriented? We can get you a hockey puck burger!”

    “’F ya can promise me explosives, I’ll tagalong.  Save ya from those fuckers.”

     “Of course it is.”

     “That didn’t really answer my question though and I’m a very curious person, Birdie.”

     “Nothing!” Trayson flung an arm around Birdie’s shoulders as he began escorting the both of them toward the cafeteria. “I just have little patience for clumsy idiots.” 

     “What are you up to? Come lookin’ for little ol’ me?”

     Trayson arrived back at Haven with a pair of other Resistance members, having come back from a job to misappropriate some medical supplies. They came back with two cases in tow, Trayson leaving the heavy lifting to the guys behind him, strutting down the hall toward the elevator, when he got distracted by a particular smell wafting down the halls from the cafeteria.       He stopped short, lifting his index finger into the air as he glanced at the pair behind him, “Is that fucking pie?” One of them hadn’t been paying attention and ran directly into him, dropping the crate they’d been carrying so the lid popped open and the supplies went scattering across the floor.       With a scoff, Trayson turned around, now with both arms in the air as he stared at the guy in disbelief, “Are you fucking kidding me? What kind of Resistance member can’t even make it down the fucking hall? Unbelievable. You’re picking this up yourselves. I’m eating fucking pie. And it better be fucking Margot’s shit or I’m shoving that cardboard baking soda down your fucking pie hole.”

     “Eat my shit, Hallifax.” Peters, the fucker who’d fumbled the shit, grumbled as he began stacking boxes of bandages back in the crate.

     Trayson turned on his heel, about to make the same mistake his partner had made, only he stopped himself, catching the person in front of him by the shoulder before his own had rammed into theirs. “Ya’d think this place was the size of a fuckin’ piss-pot!” It wasn’t, obviously — but it was peak time of day, with people coming and going, those who lived there on their way for a meal, and a few scheduled pick-ups to transport gear to other bases. It crammed the building and reminded Trayson why he liked to stay out of Haven as much as possible.

deesharpe​.

Isobel Sharpe​.

    Izzy tried to hold on; she didn’t want to die. As much as she might’ve made morbid jokes or thought her existence was absolutely useless, she didn’t want to die. And among the numbness that began to crawl through her entire body, it felt like her heart was breaking. It wasn’t pain from the bullet wound, wasn’t the blazing roar when she shifted, that made everything feel like it was on fire. It was a deep ache, expanding from the center of her chest as she watched her sister, studied each tear as it rolled down reddened cheeks. She wanted to kiss them. She wanted to pull her against her and promise her a million times over everything was going to be okay. Only she wasn’t sure if it was for Dee or herself. She’d be gone, and she was promising it’d be okay, but she wasn’t sure. She has Silas. She has people. She’ll be okay. She’ll be okay. “I love you.” Was she crying too? There was a tickle along her own cheek that felt like a tear, warmth building around her eyes. If she could’ve, she’d have reached up to wipe it away, to see if it was real.     The noise surrounding them began to drown out, consciousness leaving her, darkness seeping in from the edges of her vision. She was so tired. Dee was holding her hands against the wound, gripping them tightly, and Izzy could feel the movement, she could feel the slickness of blood between their skin, she knew she was hurt, she knew she was dying — her breathing becoming shallow gasps, her limbs like lead — only all that pain, all that fear… it felt like it was draining out of her, sailing out on the sea of red that poured from her torso.     “Hug me. Pl-please?” If Dee said something, Izzy didn’t register it, her eyes falling closed as her body fought the inevitable, her chest jumping up with each sharp inhale — until it didn’t. Until her muscles went completely lax and her head rolled to the side, a trail of blood trickling from the corner of her mouth.

     Hug me. Dee pushed herself up into a crouch, her fingers shifting to Izzy’s shoulders as she pulled her sister into her, wrapping her arms around her back and holding her close.    “It’s okay.” The side mirror outside the window was blown off when a bullet hit it. “I’ve got you.”

     And the body in her arms was still.

   “… Izzy?” Dee squeezed her tighter, voice shaking when she spoke. “Izzy?” She pulled back, eyes landing on her sister’s face. And her heart leapt into her throat, and her breath was stolen from her. “No…” A whisper, her head shaking in denial without her noticing it. Izzy’s eyes were closed. A red streak split her cheek.      More sobs erupted from her, and she couldn’t breathe, grief tearing through her like a hurricane. She didn’t even notice the silence outside – the cessation of the barrage of gunfire that had been raging around them as the last drone fell to the ground and exploded in a hail of smoke and debris.

     Then the sun hit her face for a moment when someone opened the driver’s side door – a bright caress Isobel would never feel again – then a shadow fell over them. Dee heard whoever it was draw in a sharp breath and release it in a sigh, but she didn’t look up; she’d crumpled onto the floor of the vehicle and was still sitting there, still clutching her sister’s hand that she didn’t know when she’d grabbed, still sobbing into her lap. Izzy was still warm, and if Dee kept her eyes closed, her sister could be asleep. It didn’t have to be real. She didn’t have to be alone. She didn’t have to feel what it was like to break.      “Everyone in one piece?” Whoever had opened the door had turned away. His voice carried in another direction, a soft mutter.      “We’re good, nothing major – but we need to get outta here fast.” A tinny voice responded over the communicator.      “Yeah. We need a stretcher over here. Gather the others and bring whatever you can find; plus whatever supplies you can carry.”

     Dee had no intention of moving. Maybe if the Government came bearing down on them, they would kill her, too.

    The drones all fell finally, and the voices from inside the truck had gone down to just one.  Birdie ducked back in to see Dee huddled over her sister's lifeless body.  There was no love lost between her and her biological siblings, but there'd been a girl once, long ago, who had been important to her.  It was as close to family as Birdie had ever gotten and then she'd died in the bombing, her body gone along with her belongings, and it had... hurt.  It had hurt to lose her, and to have nothing to mourn over.  No closure.  No goodbyes.

deesharpe​.

Isobel Sharpe​.

    Izzy slowed the truck to a stop behind the others and she could already feel her heart speeding up, a quick kick of nausea hitting her in the gut. She kept her eyes focused on the wreck, watched as two men got out of vehicle one to inspect then…     A loud bang rose from the wreckage, her ears ringing from the sound and fucking panic as pieces of metal kicked up in the air, voices over the radio demanding for them to retreat. Scatter. They had supplies and people — with no fucking clue if this was Government or something else.

    Izzy put the truck in reverse, the back-end swinging off the paved road as the vehicles behind her spurred into motion, some doing the same, one of the others taking a different route through the flat desert. She kept the wheel in a death grip, teeth gritted as she whipped it in one direction, trying to get out of there as quickly as possible, trying to ignore the buzzing in her ears; how it felt almost impossible to even think. I’m not made for this shit. I’m not made for this shit. What the fuck am I doing?     Sand crunched under their wheels as they hitched on to the road, Izzy stomping down on the throttle to speed them away from the mess. “Is anyone dead?” She didn’t realize she was speaking, the question tumbling out of her thoughtlessly. “They’re probably dead.” She couldn’t take her eyes off the road, couldn’t let her focus go anywhere else. Just get us out of here. Get us out of here. You can do this. Get us out of here. Over and over. On repeat in her brain. Fucking focus.     And she did. So much that she barely noticed the drones before gunfire began raining down, metal colliding with metal, deafening clanking that got buried under the sound of her own pulse, then the truck jerked sliding to one side as they hit one of the tires, the rim struggling to direct the weight. Izzy tried to compensate and keep it on the road, ducking down below the wheel just as the front windshield shattered, and she lost her grip, the vehicle skidding into the sand.     She couldn’t feel her hands, not when her torso was burning, a searing pain that tore through her entire torso as she tried to keep her hold, tried to keep her focus. The truck slammed into a cactus, causing her to bounce in her seat, barely able to keep her face from smacking into the wheel. Everything felt hot. Everything fucking hurt. Then she felt more warmth, seeping down her back, gluing the fabric of her shirt to her skin. Izzy tried to breathe, sucking in a shaky breath before her sister’s name fell quietly from her lips. Then once more, this time a bit louder. “Dee?”

     Everything happened too fast. She felt the explosion from the crashed car shake the ground beneath them, and before she knew it, they were turned around, speeding away behind the trucks that had been at their backs in the convoy. Dee grabbed the gun from the compartment in the door and held it close, ready, watching one of the other trucks veer off the road and into the terrain. Her eyes scanned the horizon, the road, for anything else approaching, but there was nothing. Nothing – and then little white dots in the sky, growing as they came closer.

     Dee felt her heart kick into high gear, slamming against her ribcage like a hammer, and she couldn’t breathe, and she was lying in the scorching sand underneath a hail of bullets, chopper blades cutting the blue air above her with a deafening roar. The hurricane it created whipped her hair around her face, into her eyes, rousing the dust into a rust-colored cloud around her, and she was all alone. T was gone, and Dee was dying, and the ground was drinking her blood.      Her breath was hitching in her chest, rapid, short, and she couldn’t think, couldn’t move, couldn’t make herself stop. There were holes in the windshield, intricate spiderwebs of broken glass blooming from them, turning the world outside into a shattered mosaic of brown and blue. Then the crash. The rumbling shakiness of their tumultuous ride came to an abrupt halt, and Dee heard the seatbelt snap as it locked and held her in place, the full weight of her body thrown against it. It knocked the air out of her, and the gun flew from her hand, clattering to the floor somewhere at her feet.

     The inside of the truck came rushing back all at once, and her lungs forced a gasping inhale down her throat, expanding her chest. Drones, not a helicopter. Not alone. Not crawling back to the church in the scorching sun.

     Someone’s calling me. She turned towards the sound, her eyes refocusing as she blinked the past away.

     Isobel.

     Fingers stiff and clumsy on the mechanism, Dee detached her seatbelt, scrambled over the console in a panic, and knelt on the floor in front of the driver’s seat, her foot jammed in between the gas and the brake, her prosthetic somewhere – out of the way.    “Izzy.”

   “No…” Her voice broke, fading into a whisper. “No.” Hands pressed against the growing crimson stain on her sister’s shirt, trying to staunch it, to stop it from spreading. Her hands were wet in an instant, and– this can’t be happening. “No, please– Izzy, look at me.” Tears spilled from her eyes and rolled down her cheeks, leaving burning hot trails in their wake. Dee shook her head, her lip trembling, her words escaping her in a faltering quaver. “Look at me. Please don’t– please…”

    The world seemed to move in slow motion as Birdie watched Izzy try to maneuver the truck.  There was nothing she could do from the backseat, though she wanted to.  Wanted to push the other girl out of the way and take over because people like Izzy shouldn't be in charge of shit like that with fucking gunfire raining down on them from the drones overhead.  Birdie should've insisted on driving before they left.  Should've gotten in another fucking truck.  Should've done anything that would've saved her from the situation she'd found herself in, because the other one was no fucking help either.  She looked like she was having a panic attack of some sort and Birdie couldn't help but wonder who the fuck is in charge of assigning people to these fucking missions and how many times she could punch them in the face later for being so fucking stupid.

deesharpe​.

Isobel Sharpe​.

   Izzy didn’t know Birdie all that well. Resistance. Angry. And that was about it. There was, of course, a hostility about the woman that made her sure that if shit hit the fan, she’d be an asset. Way more than me, she thought, pinching her lips together when the other two did little to help the boredom situation.    “Yeah, well, I saw a couple vultures gnawing on some road kill. We have options,” she replied with a hint of a smirk, glimpsing at her sister in her peripheral.

   She drummed her fingers on the wheel, “Alright then. Gossip it is. So…” Izzy elongated the o, turning her head this time when she looked at Dee. “How’s married life?”

     Groaning, Dee laid her hand over her eyes, slouching in her spot. She brought her left leg up and wrapped her arms around it, her sneakered foot resting on the edge of the seat as she turned again to look at her sister.

   “I don’t know. How’s life as a friendless virgin?”      Suddenly, the communications device that laid in the center console beeped, a faint static sounding over its speakers. Dee put her leg down, leaned forward, and turned the volume on the radio all the way down.      “This is vehicle one. We’re stopping for what appears to be an abandoned wreck in the road. Be on your guard.” Slowly, the convoy ground to a halt, truck by truck, Izzy pushing down on the brakes as they came up behind the vehicle in front of them. Dee craned her neck, tried to see what was going on up front, tried to see if she could catch a glimpse of the car they’d mentioned, but she saw nothing. She knew there were control vehicles sent out ahead of the convoy to make sure the route was clear, which meant either that one of them had broken down, or that something unaccounted for was happening. Her pulse picked up its pace a little, but she kept her breathing steady, glancing at the gun that laid in a compartment in the door beside her. All they could do was wait.

    White Knuckler brought up gossip and married life and Birdie almost opened the door to the moving truck and rolled out.  Surely, someone else had room for her in theirs.  She'd take the trunk if she had to.  She didn't care.

deesharpe​.

Isobel Sharpe​.

    Some indie rock drifted from the speakers, tuned to Renegade Radio, though Izzy kept the volume lower so she could hear their surroundings. Her nerves always began humming in these situations, the anxiety spiking with each sign that passed indicating they were getting further away from the city. Longer the trip, longer the time she was in a fucking truck loaded with illegal shit, going to an illegal place, and even if the Government didn’t catch a whiff of them, it didn’t mean there weren’t other dangers waiting to fuck the entire thing up. Isobel never felt like she was good enough; certainly not when people were relying on her.     But she had to help. What else was there to do? Sit around in her apartment? Become a hermit whose best friend was a faded blanket with crumbs stuck to it? Maybe a depressed cat named Herbert.

    Buildings fell away from their surroundings, becoming scattered, then barely any at all, just expansive desert with earthy red peaks that stood out against a strikingly blue sky. She tried to let herself admire it, let it take her outside of her head, but it was difficult to do when she was behind the wheel. When people were fucking relying on her.     Her grip on the wheel tightened as she glanced at each of the mirrors, then let out a heavy sigh, “Okay someone fucking… play a game or something like… I Spy or whatever else people do when they’re stuck in a car.”

     The baking desert was flying past outside the car’s window, twisted, knobby shrubs and cracked, coppery rocks blurring by as Dee watched, zoning out to the feather-light sensation of the cool air from the car’s vents stirring the strands of hair that framed her face. A line of three other trucks stretched out in front of them, rumbling along the dirt road, and there were two more behind them, following in their tracks – they had a ways to go yet before they got to the base, a decommissioned airfield out in the middle of the desert, hours from anything or anyone. Dee had made the trip a few times before, each one without a hitch; more than anything, the job was just sitting around, waiting for something to happen. Being there in case it did.

   “I Spy?” She turned to her sister in the driver’s seat, brows creeping up her forehead in an exaggerated expression of incredulity. “There’s only so many times you can point out a cactus, Iz.” Twisting a little in her seat, she turned to look at Birdie over her shoulder. “You bored, too? Any ideas?”

    Birdie wasn't sure how she'd gotten stuck in the truck with Little Blonde Bitch's friend, Other Little Blonde Bitch, and her sister but there they fucking were.  The three of them.  All stuck in one small space for fucking hours.  She would've rather been stuck with Trayson and a girl he was trying to sleep with, listening to him flirt and charm her, than the pair she'd gotten — especially when the one driving looked like she was about to shit her paints.  White Knuckler.  That'd be her nickname.

    The suggestion of playing I Spy came up and Birdie couldn't stop herself from snorting.  I spy with my little eye... two people I'd love to fuckin' smack in the head.

Trayson watched Birdie with the man, a slow grin forming on his lips. He knew he’d never been her type; something he could stomach by the knowledge that she was only into the fairer sex. That never stopped him from wondering, of course. Especially when he saw her like this, chomping at the bit for the same kind of release he enjoyed. Relished in. Blood and guts and screams, oh my.

When Birdie turned to look at him, Trayson’s attention was focused on her nails in his cheek, on the man whose eyes darted around looking for any escape. “Not here, not in public. Besides the basics.” A few people stumbled out of the club, as if on cue, casting mildly interested glances in their direction before moving on. Just another night in Battery City.

He slipped a hand beneath his jacket, to his waist, unsheathing a large knife that he kept next to his gun. “This is about as good as it’s gonna get out here, darlin’.” He closed in, standing beside the man as he grabbed the collar of his jacket, making sure he stayed still. “Which is why we might wanna take this party elsewhere — at least to the back alley. Mr. Bouncer might come on back out and give us a hard time.”

Trayson folded his arms across his chest, leaning against the building as he watched Birdie and the man. He snickered at the poor chap begging, wondering if it’d ever worked for him in the past. For anyone? Certainly not in his experience.

“And you should absolutely get every little thing you love, want…” He waved a hand dismissively, before tucking it back under his arm. “You hear that? She loves it! Maybe if you try a little harder, she’ll lighten up on the heel.” A lie. Trayson knew it. He must’ve known it. “Not such a big man on campus now, are we?”

    Trayson’s words quieted the man and Birdie laughed out loud.  “If y’think goin’ silent’ll make me let ya go, you’re dead wrong.  Literally.  ‘Cause, now -”  She yanked him up off the ground and shoved him hard against the concrete wall to her left.

“Oh, my dear… by all means… don’t let me stop you.” Trayson extended an arm toward the man who was picking up the money, glancing back at Trayson and Birdie wearily.

“I always appreciate a good show.”

He didn’t need to turn around to know who was behind him. Birdie. “Heya, darlin’. Just takin’ care of business over here. How nice of you to drop by!” He spoke to her, but kept his attention on the man in front of him, smiling as if they were all just having a pleasant run-in.

How’s your night going?

Oh, just lovely, and yours?

The man looked at Birdie, confusion flashing across his features momentarily, then he was staring at Trayson again; Trayson, who, was now barely an inch in front of him. He acted like there was something on the man’s shoulder, a mock show of compassion appearing in the form of a smile. Trayson brushed the invisible particle away with his right, just as his left followed through with a solid jab, right in the nose. Then came the right, following through with another hit to the side of his face.

The man stumbled backward, arms out as he tried to catch his balance, the punches clearly doing enough of a number on him that it took him a moment to focus.

“Now see, manners are important. And when you run into a nice lady like my friend, you apologize. You pick up what you made her drop. And then you go on your fucking way. So let’s try th-” Trayson was interrupted by a fist flying at him this time, but Trayson wasn’t drunk, and he hadn’t already been hit. He knew was he was doing, thrived off it. So when that fist came toward him, he blocked it, fingers coiling around his wrist and twisting his arm behind his back as he brought him in close – still fucking smiling. The man tried to pull back, the two of them appearing like they were almost doing a dance as Trayson kept him in place. 

“You really wanna do this? Cause you don’t wanna see how fuckin’ crazy I can get.”

“ – And as you can see,” Trayson finally directed a momentary glance back at Birdie, “I have friends waiting on me. Equally crazy friends. And we’d both rather get back to our evening, wouldn’t we?”

When he let go of him, the man stumbled again, clearly somewhat intoxicated. But this time, he bent down to pick up the scattered litter of cash and cards.

“Sorry about that! People, ya know?” He turned to Birdie, giving her a wink.

    As if to prove Trayson’s point, Birdie pulled her knife out of the holster around her ankle and turned it gently over in her hands a few times.  “I was really hopin’ he wasn’t gonna listen a second time so we could fuck with ‘im a lil’ bit.”