#c. fletcher

NIGHT, FRIDAY 25TH JUNE. YORK ROAD STATION. Peace, for all it’s worth, stings like a nettle in the summertime. The safety it would bring was welcome, a return to warm endless days of not having to watch for dark shadows in their periphery, her family far safer now than they had been in the brutal cold violence of winter. But the lack of ability to strike back at other people for past wrongs was already beginning to itch, particularly as she watches Fletcher remove his mask to smoke beneath the golden glow of a streetlight in the mild June night air. A pang of anger shoots through Kitty at the sight of his face, residual fear from their last run-in clinging to the back of her throat. Her own mask glints as she detaches herself from the shadows and strides forwards until she’s close enough to smell the acrid burning of his cigarette. She stares at him, not having considered that any words she might want to say would die on her tongue before they can escape past her grit teeth. It takes a moment to form something that has sound but when she does it’s drenched in resentment. “Fuck you.” 

AFTER MIDNIGHT, SUNDAY 23RD MAY. DEATH’S HEADQUARTERS. It’s quiet in the belly of the ship, below the waterline and away from the metallic clang of chaos taking place in the open air, teams fighting to distract their enemies and give the divers time to sink beneath the murky Thames. Adrenaline sings through Kitty’s limbs and she feels, for the first time in a while, like she’s exactly where she’s supposed to be: a black cat in the shadows, doing her best to slink unseen through narrow corridors dotted with doors leading to various uncharted rooms. She tries the handle to one but finds it locked. Tries another, expecting the same result, but feels the lock give way. It opens to reveal a cabin — 160 square feet if she was any good at guessing sizes — modestly decorated with a bed, a chair, what looked like a wardrobe, and a chest of drawers with an assortment of items on top. She checks the time on her watch and steps forward to venture inside, curious, when the sound of footsteps stops her in her tracks. 

Kitty, ever bold, ever brave, ever ready to spill blood should the situation call for it, draws a knife from its sheath strapped around a thigh and flicks out the cabin light to conceal herself in darkness. With shallow breaths, she waits tentatively. If anyone else had been there, they may have seen the sliver of a smile slice across her lips as footfall approaches the doorway. She leaps back out into the corridor, blade brought flush to their jugular, using surprise to knock them against the wall and hold them there at knifepoint. But it’s her own expression that flickers with startled shock, studying Fletcher for a handful of hammering heartbeats before she takes a step back and removes the weapon from his neck. He may very well be an enemy, but Pestilence wasn’t the prey she was hunting tonight. And neither were ghosts from the past who come back to haunt her by aligning themselves with families who would sooner see her killed. 

Quando o café disponível no hospital já não supria mais suas necessidades — que ocasionalmente envolviam a demanda por algo mais agradável para o paladar — uma visita do Starbucks no Pike Place se tornava a alternativa mais prática. Além das opções interessantes que compunham o cardápio do estabelecimento, também encontrava ali um ambiente agradável e uma diversidades de produtos tentadora. Jamais deixava aquele local sem alguma aquisição inesperada para sua casa. Parada contra o balcão da cafeteria, esperando seu nome ser chamado para retirar o pedido feito, remexia alguns objetos dentro da bolsa à procura de seus remédios. E assim que encontrou o primeiro frasco e despejou a dose necessária sobre a palma da mão, escutou a voz familiar que a fez se sobressaltar. "Caramba, Fletcher! Que susto!" Imediatamente largando tudo que segurava, tentando esconder o conteúdo da bolsa, ela se voltou para o rapaz.