chasing daybreak

The barrel of a gun presses against the back of her skull. “I don’t think so,” a coarse voice grunts. “Put your hands down or I’ll blow your brains out.”

Her brow furrows. She can’t place the accent—nor the sound of the safety mechanism. Not Ishgardian or Limsan, she’s certain of that. “All right, all right,” she mutters, lowering her hands. “You gonna tell me what you’re after? Could at least do me the decency of lettin’ me turn around. Hate havin’ a conversation with someone I can’t see. Or are you one of those lot who mean business right up ‘til they have to show their face?”

He growls, shoving the barrel deeper into the nape of her neck as he slides her rifle from her back. “Stop talking, savage. Start walking.”

“I can do both, y’know. At the same time. Us lowborn are versatile like that—”

“Walk.” 

She does as she is told.

Disgust twists in the pit of her stomach he marches her down the street. There is something about being caught and paraded about like this that is as repulsive as it is infuriating. If he had jumped her, if he had barrelled out of an alleyway and tackled her to the ground, if she had been able to put up a fight, if he had put in the damn work then it would be different. But to stroll up to her from behind and put a gun to her head…

Fucker.

She bites her tongue, keeping the worst of her remarks to herself. Though she has no intention of keeling over for him, she would like to keep her brains intact.

“Where we goin’?” she asks as they descend further down the dark street. There is no one about, no one to call to. They are too far away from the Manufactory now to alert Stephanivien or Joye, and the Temple Knights—Aymeric’s good ones, at least—do not patrol this street often. How to get out of this? If she can distract him and move away, get her hands on her rifle… “Turn off for the Forgotten Knight is back that way, if you were intendin’ on buyin’ me a drink.”

He grunts. “What are you on about? I am not—”

“It’s customary, ain’t it? Even amongst lowborn. If you’re gonna ask a lady out, at least buy her a drink first. Gibrillont’s wine should do the trick. Maybe somethin’ better since you jumped straight to pullin’ your gun on me—”

“Shut up.” He pulls her forcefully to a stop. “Vitus said you were a quiet one, but—”

“Well then, Vitus doesn’t know shit. Who’s Vitus anyway? Never heard of him.”

“Then you will get to know him. Now move.”

She doesn’t budge. Something is off about this and her mind is too busy putting the pieces into place. “So, this Vitus wants me alive then, huh?”

A pause. “You’re of no use to him dead.”

She smirks. Just what she wanted to hear.

“The Empire would greatly benefit from your death to be sure, but Vitus? No. He wants you alive—”

Me? Alive? Why would some Garlean-sounding fucker want… oh. 

Well, shit. It was bound to happen eventually—she just didn’t expect for it to happen now, or on Ishgardian soil. Unfortunately, there is a new problem a hand: the moment he finds out he has not, in fact, captured the Warrior of Light, she’s dead.

She needs her fucking gun.

Bang. 

The shot echoes across the empty street. Hilda pitches forward, hands slamming painfully into the cobblestones, her heart hammering in her throat. For a moment she could have sworn she was hit—blood bursting, bones breaking—but in the passing seconds, her imagination retreats and she is clear-headed once more. She rolls over and pushes herself up, searching the rooftops for the source of the shot.

Bang. Bang. 

Her assailant returns fire. A blonde figure darts across the rooftops, slipping and sliding across the sloped shingles, and leaps behind a chimney as his shot blasts a chunk out of the roof.

Shit. This gets better and better.

Hilda curses and keeps low to the ground, watching as the machinist fires another shot and retreats, running further down the line of tenements. There isn’t much time. Firefights against dragonkin may have taken bells to declare a winner, but humans shooting at humans? It’s not like it is in the broadsheets. Someone is going to get lucky and someone is going to make a mistake.

“DAMN IT!”

The Garlean spy—for that must be what he is—dives behind a broken fountain, leaving Hilda’s rifle forgotten on the ground. Cursing under his breath, he leans out from his cover and takes careful aim, shrugging off the sounds of the machinist’s wild shots as their bullets pepper the cobblestones at his feet.

A single shot and it is over.

The blonde figure falls from the rooftops and disappears behind a half-wall.

Gritting his teeth, the spy emerges from his cover and lowers his gun, stepping forward to investigate.

Click. 

“I’d say somethin’ about not moving or I’ll blow your brains out,” Hilda says from a distance, her rifle back in her hands, the shot perfectly aligned. “But considerin’ you may have just killed my friend, frankly I’m not in the mood.”

He grits his teeth. “Look, Malathar, we can talk this through—”

“That’s the other thing. I ain’t her.”

“You—what?”

“Halone’s tits, did you really think she’s the only one of us with—how did that lord put it?—‘ruby eyes and raven hair?’ Fucking hells. Try harder next time.”

She fires.

The body slumps to the ground, blood pooling beneath it.

Sighing wearily, Hilda shoulders her rifle and strides across the street, scooping up the Garlean’s gun. The Temple Knights can deal with the body. The gun, however… Stephanivien will want a look at it. The Lord Commander will no doubt want to conduct an investigation, and she can’t let it be confiscated.

“Nice shot.”

Joye picks her way across the street, hem raised demurely like a noble lady to avoid the blood and muck. A bit pointless, considering her skirts are already stained with soot and mud.

“Thanks for the distraction,” Hilda replies. “But Fury damn it all, did you really have to take a fall like that? You know you have nine faces, not nine lives!”

Joye throws her head back and laughs. “Good thing I came. Never know with you when you leave the Manufactory, you could be swept off to luncheon with the Lord Commander or be dead in a gutter. What did the bastard want with you?”  

“Not me. Aureia. But she ain’t here. Must have not reached them yet that she’s halfway around the world.”

“Ah.” She makes a face. “Another case of mistaken identity?”

“Yeah.”

“Maybe folk need better eyes, dunno why they keep thinkin’ you’re her. You don’t look aught alike, if you ask me.”

Hilda’s lips twitch. “You think so?”

“I do think so! See—” She threads her arm through hers and steps in close, eyes twinkling mischievously. “You, I’d kiss. Her? Not so much.”

She chortles and elbows her in the side. “Come on,” she replies, picking her way back up the street. “Someone’s got to tell Aymeric about this mess. If Garleans are hunting Aureia… he’ll know what to do.”