Shield Architect

Perhaps he would set up his own sentry? If they had people watching, it only seemed wise that he did too. There were still a few people that he could trust. Not loyal to him persay, but indefinitely loyal to the cause.

“On the contrary. You shouldn’t look so defeated. It was perfectly safe.”

He waited for the look of confusion he knew was coming before he continued. He had always possessed a certain flair for dramatics.

“Most people would have turned me in.”

It wasn’t a lie uttered to ease the guilt and disappointment weighing her down. As of late it seemed as though everyone had a knife hidden behind their back. Some ulterior and selfish motive hidden underneath a veil of empathy and understanding.

For the empty promise of their own safety or a chance to see themselves in someone else’s good graces, they would not hesitate to give up their own mothers. Self preservation was a hard instinct to fight and it seemed mankind was ripe with it, regardless of which side of the fight they stood on.

“You don’t have to worry about me. You shouldn’t. I have been here before. In much worse circumstances against much larger odds.”

He allowed his voice to drift off in thought as he craned his head upward to survey the path she had laid before him.

“You will want to keep your doors locked. Your windows shut. Do not stray from your usual routine. If nothing seems out of place, they won’t have anything to go on.

I will not hold you at fault, if you decide to turn traitor. You would not be the first one who has.”

With a small smile, he turned his gaze back to her.

“But I’m afraid if that happens, you won’t get your sweater back. Eye for an eye.

His clarification sharpened into a painful sting.

Most people would have turned me in.

He said it so casually, as if it were a universal truth that he had witnessed time and time again. It was a bleak glimpse into the world he existed in, but hearing him apply it to this situation, to her, pushed the fear down, just for a minute. The bitterness her tone carried was not directed at him.

"I am not most people." Her voice was tight, strained into a loud whisper. "I didn't open my door just to hand you over." She couldn't deny it, though, that many were so self-serving that the convenience of just letting them have him, either to play neighborhood hero for a moment or to avoid the danger being redirected at them, was a pattern even she could identify.

She wondered which neighbor called it in. Who had looked out the window and saw a man covered in blood in the night and instead of thinking he might be hurt, decided immediately that he was not worth the time to ask. Who had even been up? She knew she kept some odd hours, but to think a neighbor did as well - enough to witness his arrival, felt intentional.

His practical sobering checklist gave her mind something else to latch onto. Tasks. A goal. The hardest part would be sticking to her routine and she could already anticipate the strange suspicion of those residents around her. Faces behind curtains, peering out onto the street, keeping an eye on the comings and goings of the other homes.

"I will lock up. And get rid of the shirt. And - I will not turn you in." The final part was spoken with an adamant stubbornness that overrode the fear still crawling beneath her skin.

"When you return the sweater, you'll have to tell me what really happened to your shirt." An offer, a challenge. She knew there was more to the story. That seemed to be his thing. Max, man of mystery.

When he offered his parting thanks, the sincerity of it caught her off guard. She had done little but further complicate whatever situation was unfolding.

"I rather hope so. Goodbye, Max."

Time was not something that was on his side. He could not lend any to putting together any sort of calculated plan. He would not rest to gain his bearings and he didn’t need a single moment to find his resolve.

He would follow her map to the suspected hotel as soon as he left the swanky bar and his feet hit the pavement of the street. If her theory about which hotel they were housing the child’s family proved to be incorrect, he would check the next closest one in the area. A methodical and thorough process, that would not end until he was aware of their fate.

She had played her part and been more forthcoming and helpful than he ever could have guessed. Now it was time to complete his own part. He could rest and regroup when all was said and done.

“Anyone having to spend their lives wondering is exactly what I am trying to prevent here.”

With a curt nod, as though to physically embody his resolve, he leaned forward against the table so to push his chair out.

“I will contact you. And thank you. For the drinks. Your company is a lot more pleasant than I would have expected.”

He stood and took a step that would take him beside their table. A suppressed smirk lingering on his face as he swept her a very regal bow.

"Thank you,” she said simply, genuine relief shifting into her tone, though it offered little comfort for how things would end.

He was a man on a mission, quite literally, and the restless energy cascading off of him made it clear that he would not waste a moment more now that he had his direction. Any wasted time could dramatically change the outcome, if there were any other outcome.

"Your company wasn't entirely unpleasant either," she countered with an amused laugh. As he sidled alongside the table, she leaned her head back, angling to watch him sweep into that theatrical bow. In return, she offered a stiff, slow-motion royal wave.

"Safe travels, Max."

Saying his name aloud again seemed to make it real, transforming him from the ghost she had found haunting that ruined structure. Her eyes trailed after him as he exited, sorting through the pieces of who he was.

Somehow, he was still a mystery - maybe even more so now. That fierce determination to help that family, all tied up with an effortless grace. A flair for dramatic presentation, but a seriousness that spoke of experience with working in the shadows. And beneath it all, there was something simply magnetic about his personality.

She shook her head slowly as if that would halt whatever train of thought that was.

Raising her hand slightly, she caught the waitress's eye to signal for the check and then leaned back in her chair to let her gaze sweep over the sprawling city lights.

The ambient hum of the rooftop bar flooded into the vacuum left in his absence - people laughing, the clink of glasses, the low buzz of a city that had no idea what was happening in its shadows. She didn't want to dwell on the fallout, as if giving the thought too much life would determine how his efforts went.

“I will never admit defeat. Not to you. Not to them. Not to anyone.”

A jest and the truth all rolled into one.

“You look about ready to surrender yourself. If I was a lesser man, I would take advantage of that weakness.

How long have you been up working on this?”

With a slow and melodramatic air, he pushed himself to sit up. Preparing himself for the inevitable rise to his feet, regardless of where his steps happened to take him afterwards.

She was barely keeping up with the banter but refusing to admit defeat herself. That yawn she had stifled was still threatening to escape and it was like he knew.

“Too long, probably.” Glancing at her watch she shrugged. “Long enough, for today.” She didn’t need to throw a number at him to quantify the dark circles under her eyes.

“I don’t think you have the energy to hold anyone hostage. You’re all talk, and barely that right now. If you didn’t sit up, you’d already be asleep again.”

A shrug.

Not of malice or mockery, but an unusually light and warm sound, yet tinted with the exhaustion that had pulled him under just moments before.

“My threats are always a promise.”

Trapping the pillow within his arms, he allowed his head to fall back against the top of the chair. It had been a long time since he had been lectured about anything, let alone sleep.

But she was right.

A tired mind was a mind prone to mistakes. Poor decision making was often a symptom. Loss of control and amplified emotions. A slow reaction could be a death sentence. Dulled senses were even worse.

“Stress and tension often bears the same consequences. I’m not sure a power nap would be enough.

She drew a heavy hand down her face, pausing briefly to pinch at the bridge of her nose and shut her eyes. It was a futile effort to give her eyes some reprieve. They had pored over the drawings so long that the linework was practically etched inside her eyelids.

Attempting to dissect his metaphor was a losing battle, like trying to translate a language she knew all of five words in.

Dropping her hand, she looked down at his legs where they protruded across the gap between the chair and her desk.

"If you want a cure to all of that, proper sleep is probably the proper prescription. Don't quote me on that, though. I'm not a doctor," she countered, her voice finally revealing the weariness.

"For both of us, I think. A good night's sleep resolves stress. Tension." Even perplexing analogies.

"What do you say? Are we admitting defeat?"

She gave his foot a heavy, slightly uncoordinated nudge with her own as if to make sure he didn't nod off again.