Spirits of the Earth

"Stay behind. Mr. Fletcher, STAY BACK."

"I can't, it's pulling me in, I — Lyssy, GO!"

Everything went dark. Everything felt...wrong. The world spun like he'd hit the bottom of the bottle. Like he was underwater and upside down, and the waves kept churning and rolling. Something cold and hard hit him square in the shoulder. His neck lurched. He smacked his ear against stone. And then...nothing. Quiet.

A familiar stench played at his nostrils. Something small patted along his side. He grunted. "Mmh. Lys? Bit early for that, love — " he mumbled. He heard a gasp from above. A child's voice. A child's footsteps. Some little shit was going through his pockets, then. Not Lys. And...who was Lys? He tried to focus, but her face slid from his mind. Who was...? No. Now he couldn't even remember her name. A second passed. He forgot what he'd been trying to think of at all. Maybe it didn't matter. Maybe he should just nurse this hangover first.

The hand went back in his pocket. Grubby fingers wiggled and grasped about, questing for treasure. Fletcher's eyes snapped open. "Oi!" he barked. The exertion of that single word sent his head screaming and pounding. Stars flashed before him. Wherever he was, it was dim, but holy fucking emperor: even that was too bright. "Fuck me," he grumbled. He lifted an arm and swiped blindly behind him. By sheer luck, he managed to smack his pint-sized assailant. "Get off of me, you little bastard. Go lift coin from someone else." He heard the footsteps recede and echo above him. An alley, then. He was in an alley. Well, it sure as shit explained the smell.

Slowly, carefully, Fletch pushed himself up off of the slick, grimey cobble. He leaned against the brick wall behind him and worked his way to his feet. He squinted down the alley and tried to focus on that searing rectangle of sunlight that marked a main street. It was no use. It was still a blur. He wondered absently if he'd been given wood alcohol. Wouldn't be the first time he'd swilled contaminated bottom shelf. "Would certainly explain the fucking headache." But...where had he been, that he'd been drinking like that? And where was he now? Come to think of it, nothing about this alley looked familiar. The brick was all wrong. The color, too. And what was more... He shivered and pulled his frock coat tighter around himself. It was cold, here. Cold like the city had never been.

Something wasn't right about this. Not right at all.

Fletch groaned. He was tired of "adventure". And right now, everything hurt too much for him to solve a bloody mystery. That was Ven's job.

Who was Ven?

"Never mind it," he told himself. Maybe Ven didn't matter, either. His first order of business was to get his head in order. He shoved a hand in his coat pocket and rifled around. His fingers brushed a few errant bits of linty tobacco at the bottom. Fletch looked down. He wiggled them again just to be sure. He came up empty. The pickpocket had nicked his fags. It was turning out to be a very bad day for him, it seemed. His heart began to pound in his ears. "Oh, you little — GET BACK HERE!" he roared. His temples split from the pain and his vision went white again, but he didn't care. Nobody took Devlin Fletcher's cigarettes. He took off running down the alley and burst into the light — and into a world where nothing made sense.

The bustle of the city hung dense in the air, near suffocating like the choking smoke in a forest fire. The stench wasn't much better, streets littered with generous debris and refuse, people pocked here or there in crumbling pockets of left over cargo boxes or crumbling bricks from decaying buildings.

The slums were colorful muck, if anything, tramps stamping the outer most walls, peeking out just enough so travelers new where to look. Pick pockets were a plenty, and made up of all kinds of people; from dirt smudged faced children to the toothless and hairless old men a day women. It was just the sort of place a one eyed cat named Jack had made his home.

He was old and ornery, either thick, matted fur and a half bent, crook to hs old tail that he thumped about beside his paws as he peered down the dreary alleyway either a glow to his golden eye- and most soured expression twisting his whiskers.

He was a large cat, biggest on this side of the slums. He'd likely have the most fleas too, were it not for his allowance of a certain young woman to tend to him from time to time. She often fed him from her pocket, and he was hungry this day, waiting on his usual spot in the cornered shadow of the narrow alley, where few beggers wasted their time. 

In fact, very little traffic came down this section of the slums. It was too poor for anyone but bandits and vagabonds, and was mostly populated by alley cats. No others were around, the few that were poked their heads out curiously but kept their distance from the massive orange cat sitting at the corner. They all knew better than to mess with him. He was extra grumpy when he was hungry. And he got mad when he was extra grumpy. 

She was late. Sometimes it happened, but the orange cat simply waited, swishing his tail and glaring about, and on occassion, cleaning its untameable fur. It wasn't until someone bolted down the alleyway that the cat reared up, hissing up a storm.  Then another of those damned humans yelled and came galumphing down the way; and Jack the old one eyed cat was going to have none of that-
Riaisng up one hefty paw, claws at the ready when- suddenly the familiar voice of his human came from around the corner, the music like sound to her voice taking the large cat off guard again as it peered back ar the blonde haired woman that now stood in the alleyway, hands ro her hips as she looked down at the beast.

"Really, Jack, what's got you all puffed up? I know I was late for dinner but-" She hadn't noticed Fletch until he was nearly barreling into them, and she had little time to react as she grabbed onto the cat instinctively and attempted to pull her and the cat out of the man's way.

He was seething mad, now. Every footstep felt like a fish club upside the skull. Every breath yanked at a stitch in his side. It was still far too bloody bright out. The world was still so bloody wrong. "Steal my smokes," he puffed as he ran. "I'll tan your sorry hide, you little shit." He thought he might puke from all the spinning, but he pushed through it. It wasn't until he was almost on top of that damned cat that he spotted it.

It was a big thing. Ugly, too, with one eye and matted fur, all mangy and flea-bitten and scarred. It stood in the middle of that narrow alley, cool as you please, and stared Fletcher down like he'd personally issued it a challenge. Like he was trespassing on its turf. Fletch kept running. He didn't have time for this. "Move, you daft bastard," he hissed as he approached, now only a few steps away. The cat hissed back. It raised a paw to swipe at him. He sidestepped clumsily at the last second, head still pounding, eyes still squinted against the bright of day. He missed. His ankle rolled. He stumbled forward, arms outstretched to catch himself on the hard cobble. There was a blur of gold. Someone swept the cat up in their arms — someone who hadn't been there a moment before. He thought he heard them talking to it. Then Fletcher's knees hit the ground and he gritted his teeth against that fresh pain.

"Is that your fucking cat?" he snapped as he picked himself up again. He had to keep going. He had to get his smokes back. "Maybe teach it not to — "

Then he lost his words entirely. He'd expected some dirt-smeared urchin. He hadn't expected a woman. Not a pretty one, anyhow. And certainly not one alone in this shithole of a side street. She had eyes like he'd never seen. He stared, mouth agape, stubbled chin wagging ever so slightly as he tried to regain his composure. At last, it came back to him. "Erm...sorry, love. It's not been my day. You er...haven't seen a little brat run past like he'd just picked a pocket, have you? Afraid it was mine."

The woman winced as the man's knees hit the cobbles. That was going to smart. But then he was puffing out curses like it was smoke from a cigarette. 

Then he paused, just gaping. 

Ugh. Men. She planted a hand to her hip, the other holding the growling orange cat. 

"If you let an old, one eyed cat pick your pocket, you might want to consider another city."

Honestly, did he think she'd sympathize with a man waltzing through the slums and getting his pockets picked? It wasn't even night time yet, nor late enough in the evening for more 'normal' people to get drunk. But with his accent.. those looks... she wrinkled her nose as her frown deepened. He was probably a damned Adelan. 

Her accent was strange. She sounded posh. She was clean. And she didn't look like a whore, either. What was she even doing here — wherever "here" was?

Fletch squinted, but this time it wasn't from the sun. The woman had planted her hand firmly on her hip and now scowled up at him. That stupid cat dangled over her other arm like some deranged, hairy infant. Clearly he'd done something to offend the girl, but was she really playing games with him right now? He matched her posture, rolled his eyes, and glowered back at her, brow arched skeptically. He hissed a breath out through his nostrils. "Ha, ha. You're a right comedian. Are you going to help me, or — "

He stopped. He sighed. He glanced at his palm, saw that it was covered in street grime, decided he didn't care at the moment, and rubbed at his aching temple. That little bastard was long gone, and he was in no state to catch up. He knew it. He shoved his other hand in his pocket. At least he'd smacked the thief before he lost all his coin. He'd just have to go find more smokes, and some uppity priss was certainly not worth chatting up in the meantime. "You know what? Never mind it. 'Scuse me." Fletcher pushed past her and continued, now limping, towards the street.

The blonde woman was perhaps more observant than she'd like to be at the moment, and felt a pang of pity towards the stranger as he attempted to hobble away. She knew when he hit the cobblestone , it had been hard. She had been there too many times to count.

However, as the disgruntled stranger forced himself past the pair... that was apparently all the sass needed to put the temperamental Jack over the edge.

And with a mighty mreowl, Jack launched himself from his humans arms and straight into the bumbling stranger, claws ready. Missendria gasped at rhe sudden lunge, the cat heavy enough to topple her into the nearby alleyway wall, where she managed to catch herself with a curse, then turned to watch in horror as the cat really yowled and attempted to shred its claws into the man's arm.

Missendria gasped, pushing herself from the wall and rushed after the cat.
"Jack! Jack! No!" She exclaimed, equally afraid the cat would do some serious damage to the stranger while equally pissing off this strange man, which might lead him into doing something to harm the one eyed cat.

But in her attempt at trying to fetch the cat, she found herself tripping over the flailing pair, and with a gasp she lost her footing, landing clean over the stranger and raging cat, crashing ontop and creating a sandwich of chaos.

Startled that his human dare lay a hurtful finger upon him, the cat let out a hiss and yelp, before launching itself out from between the pair and took off towards the shadows, leaving a very disheveled and clawed up pair of fools on the ground.

One second, he'd been making his way towards the street and the too-bright light, consoling his wounded ego with fantasies of tobacco. The next, something tore straight down through felted wool, shredded his sleeve, and sank deep into his skin. Fletcher bellowed from the surprise as much as the pain of it. "ARGH. What the FUCK." He spun to find that same mangy cat latched onto him by the jaw, furiously rabbit-kicking his coat — and his arm — into ribbons. Instinctively, he tried to shake the wretched thing off of him, but he only succeeded in making his foe redouble its punishing grip. Fletch roared again and attempted to scruff the cat with his free hand. "GET YOUR ANIMAL OFF OF ME — "

"Jack! Jack! No!" The woman cried from somewhere behind him. He heard running. Her yellow hair bounced and glinted. Her arms reached forth, fingers outstretched to retrieve his assailant. He turned to face her. It was too late. She tripped. Stumbled. Bowled right into Fletch. He toppled over from the momentum and landed flat on his arse. The back of his head hit the cobble once again, and the woman fell on top of him, crushing the cat between them.

Pandemonium ensued. The great ugly thing yowled into Fletcher's bloody, raw arm before detaching and scrabbling for traction. A paw struck him in the eye. Another tore at his cheek, claws still extended for maximum damage. At last, the beast escaped its cage and made a beeline for freedom. Fletch groaned and winced at his new, stinging wounds before attempting to shove the woman away. "Aghh. Look, woman. Where I'm from, you buy a man dinner and a pint before you pull a stunt like this. Get off of me, will you?"

Missendria hardly came out unscathed, the one eyed cat not leaving her without a mark of warning. It's perhaps why the damage done unto herself from the fall was over looked, cushioned mostly by the man anyway. Well this was no where what she had expected the outcome to be. Damn. She began to untangle herself from him...

Then the man spoke. She gave him a look, golden hair and mess about her face before she attempted to push herself up and chuffed a retort, "Well, where I'm  from men-"

And thats around the time her ankle gave out. She yelped in alarm and unceremoniously fell back ontop. Damn it. She must have twisted her ankle in the fall.

"Well, where I'm from men — "

The priss had the gall to lecture him as she picked herself up. She got about halfway off of him, then yelped and fell back down again — right onto his bleeding arm. He winced. He'd had worse: regent knew he'd been flogged more times than he could count. But fucking hell, that cat meant to go for the kill. He was glad he'd seen the last of it. As for the woman...

It seemed she'd done something when she barreled into him. She'd gone and hurt herself, and now she couldn't get up. Fuck, Fletch thought. Not my bloody day, is it. Truthfully, he didn't want to help her. He didn't want to play the bloody hero. He didn't want that expected of him — not by some snotty little harpy. He was tired. His head still wouldn't stop pounding. And now he'd gotten torn to shreds by a cat of all things.

"Look, I'm flattered, but — " Fletch grunted as he rolled her off of him and onto the ground. He glared daggers at her and scowled as the bite marks began to sting something fierce. " — why don't you go and — argh — find some other rabid animal victim to throw yourself at, ey?" Using the wall as leverage, he hoisted himself to his feet. He didn't spare the woman a second glance. She wasn't important right now. Someone's face flashed in his mind. Someone's pale, thin fingers tended to his cuts and punctures. I told you to clean it as soon as possible, someone once admonished him. Honestly, Mr. Fletcher, if all of your wounds have festered so, I cannot comprehend how you have managed to cheat death with such ease.

Then the memory faded again. He knew what he had to do. Fletcher reached beneath his coat and pulled a flask from a pocket in the lining. Then he shook his jacket off, swung it to rest on one shoulder, rolled up his tattered shirt sleeve, and pulled the cork. It smelled so tantalizing. "Good fucking whiskey, too," he muttered darkly. "Wasted." He gritted his teeth, pulled the bite apart, and poured the contents over his arm. The pain surged and stabbed right down to bone.

"Motherffff — " Fletcher turned and kicked the wall, then leaned against it, panting. He roared and kicked it again, but only succeeded in stubbing his toes. "Aaaahhhh...fffffff...nnnnot my bloody day," he hissed. He allowed himself a bit more time to seethe and groan in lieu of dulling the pain with smoke and drink. He rolled over his shoulder and glowered down at the woman again. Then he saw it. Her ankle was all wrong. She'd rolled it. She wouldn't be able to walk. And there was something familiar about her, now, that he couldn't place. She reminded him of someone. Someone with yellow hair and a strong jaw and a hellfire temper. A friend. Someone he'd...

His expression softened imperceptibly. It wouldn't do to leave a thing like her alone. Not like this. "Shit," he muttered. "You've done a number on yourself, haven't you, love?" He bent and offered his good arm. "Come on, then. Tell me where I'm taking you."

Of course he'd just push her off like a sack of potatoes. She swallowed back a yelp as she landed on her ankle again, rolling off of it as tears pricked her eyes. This was not exactly how she pictured her day going.  It seemed every day was bad luck ever since...

Then she noted the package she was meant to deliver. When had that fallen from her pocket? But as she went to pick it up, Mr. Grumpylocks was offering out a hand. Oh now he wanted to help? She batted his hand away.

"I'm fine. Just call us even since my cat tore up your arm." She turned from him to collect the small bundle as discretely as she could. Last thing she needed was her 'boss' pissed at her that she lost the goods. And she didn't need others getting in her way. The delivery was time sensitive, but the drop off time was at night fall. So she had sometime to spend not losing the small sack.

The woman swatted him away. "I'm fine," she said. "Just call us even since my cat tore up your arm."

Fletch snorted. "Yeah? That ankle's fine, is it?" he chuckled. "Don't be daft. Here." He pulled his coat from his shoulder and donned it again. As he did, he watched her snatch something from the ground. She certainly was sneaky about it. He wondered what it was, exactly, that she didn't want him to see. Fletch waited for her to finish stowing her little secret, making careful note of where she'd put it. Then, before the priss could protest, he bent, slung her arm behind his neck, and lifted her to her feet.

"Right," he said. "Two choices, love. Either I walk you out of here like this, or I throw you over my shoulder and carry you. You really want the townsfolk to see something like that?"

Missendria gasped as she was unceremoniously scooped up, her arms forcefully looping around his neck so she wouldn't get dropped.

"What are you doing?" Then at his words, she bared her teeth, seething. The suggestion to carry her like a sack of potatoes wasn't a flattering alternative but she chewed over her words as she considered her predicament.

"And just where do you intend on taking me?"
They were both strangers to one another, as if he'd have a clue to where she lived or worked. And despite having injured her ankle, what would it matter where she was as she hobbled on it? She wasn't about to throw money she didn't have on a doctor who would likely make her ankle worse.. and healers were even more expensive.  Besides, magic always made her feel... uncomfortable. Perhaps it was because she had grown up in a Connlaothian influenced area or not.. because she herself was so 'magician" the idea of magically doing whatever always unnerved her. Infact, she tried not to think on it for too long.

"No," Fletch replied, drawing his words out like she was slow in the head. "That's what you tell me." He stopped walking for a moment and side-eyed the woman from beneath one arched brow. She really did remind him of...she seemed so much like... Was it the hair? All he knew was that, for some inconceivable reason, he couldn't just walk away and leave her injured. "I'm not leaving you in some beer-piss alley with a bum ankle," he grumbled. He winced at his arm and shifted his shoulder to get a better lift, then kept on limping them forward until they reached the main street. He squinted. His eyes still had to adjust. "You'll be off it if you know what's good for you. Even in my line of work, it's a few days' bed rest at the least. You're daft if you think you're going to just — wh — "

His eyes had adjusted.

Before him sprawled a city the likes of which he'd never seen. If that alley had seemed odd, the scene he now took in lacked any kind of logical sense. The people were wrong. The signs, wrong, written in some incomprehensible foreign script. Everywhere, vivid color assaulted his senses. Women dressed in intricate flowing garb like they meant to draw the eye, and the men did, too. And every once in a while, he'd spot a spark or a glint or something moving the way it shouldn't be, like every denizen of this place meant to perform some trick of the eye, some street magic.

"What — "

Fletch coughed a single cough. He blinked. He gaped. "Where in the regent's holy arsecrack am I?"

She wasn't going to wriggle free or try to squirm her way out of his arms, if anything, she was considering ways to deck him. Instead, she held her tongue, or rather, held back an itching fist. And his side eye was met with one of her own. Like the bristling cat they left in the alley, Missendria appeared as prickly as they come.

As they exited the slums and entered the city proper, she grimaced and squirmed a bit as people began to stare. She drew in a breath, releasing it irritably.

"You're.. " she began, raising an eyebrow at him. "not from around here, are you?"

The place was colorful as the rainbow, with an eclectic selection of people this side of the mountain. It wasn't much to gawk at for those around here but.. she'd been to a few other cities. Not many could compare to the colorfulness of Arca.

It was.. almost endearing if not for the people continuing to stare. She gave a few light, wriggling kicks, more out of impatience than anything.

"Think you stop gawking at the city like she's some spread-welcome whore? Really.." she shook her head then muttered to herself.  "You'd think he was a child."

"More like this place isn't from around me," Fletch muttered darkly. He continued to stare as passersby swept past them. Some of them looked a bit like him. Most of them didn't. "I'm dreaming," he decided, talking more to himself than to her. "That's what it is. You're not real. Nobody has yellow hair, right? Come off it. It's a joke. None of you are real."

The woman squirmed. "Think you can stop gawking at the city like some spread-welcome whore?" she derided him. Fletcher snorted in spite of himself. The whole thing was ludicrous, but that word was the last one he'd expected to come out of her pretty, proper face. He eyed her again, this time with a bit less skepticism. For one brief moment, he grasped how lost and alone he really was. How much he stuck out in this city like a sore thumb. How much he'd need a hand to sort this mess out.

Then he cleared his throat and shoved the thought aside. His expression hardened again. He started forward. "Think I can stop gawking, sure. Can't promise much on the other bit," he grunted. "So. For the third sodding time: where am I taking you?"

People were staring. A lot of people were staring. She squirmed some more.
"Here is just fine," she said, impatiently. 

The last thing she needed was to have attention drawn to her. She was explicitly told she had to be discrete with dropping off the package, and despite having sometime before the drop off, she'd have preferred to remain another obscure figure in the crowd. 

It seemed this man wasn't bothered by the looks they garnered. Studying him a bit more, she wondered if he might not be Essryni. He had an interesting look to him and accent, to be sure. Or perhaps he was from one of the islands? It might explain the way he was calling this place unreal. 

Sighing, she gestured with one a hand out towards the city proper.
"You've truly never been here before?" 
How'd he end up so deep in the slums? She eyed him up and down again. 
"Well welcome to Arca, capital of the kingdom of Serendipity." She paused a moment to let that sink in for him. "Now.. if you'd be so kind as to put me down ... I believe we're getting enough stares from the crowd."

"Arca," Fletch repeated. He'd never heard of an Arca, nor a Serendipity. His stomach churned. The headache was back, and it brought vertigo with it. He winced at the light. His arms and legs felt like jelly. "Erm..."

Doubt finally got the better of him, and he faltered and stopped again. The woman was right. He'd been so caught off guard by the riotous scene that he'd forgotten to watch his back. But they were staring. He was drawing attention. And attention, in a new place, with no bearings and no friends, was dangerous.

"Right," Fletch said. He lifted her arm from his shoulders and let her put her weight on her own two feet. "Right," he said again. He swayed in place, dark eyes flitting about, clammy hands clenching and unclenching. "Well. I'm off to find smokes. Best of luck with that, er — "

He waggled a hand dismissively in the general direction of her ankle. Maybe it was better this way, he thought. Maybe having a cripple on his hands would just slow him down. "Cheers," he offered, and flashed a half-hearted grin. Then he spun on one heel, red coat fluttering in his wake, took three steps away from her, and promptly collapsed to the street.

Missendria arched an eyebrow at the man when he finally set her down. He was certainly an odd one. She wasn't sure how to place her thoughts on him. It's like he wanted to be chivalrous but..

Maybe that was just the drink talking, because this man had to be drunk. Or on something. Yet.. she dealt with men and women on both and this man? Something didn't seem.. right.

She frowned when he turned from her, crossing her arms and keeping back an eye roll. She supposed she should thank him, but whatever he just helped with was.. well...
She just didn't know.

But when he suddenly collapsed she blinked, more stunned at first than alarmed and after a moment and he didn't move...

She noted the stares and grimaced. Great, they were still not in the best location on town for the damn idiot to pass out. Maybe he was drunk.

Sighing, she removed herself from the wall where she had been leaning, and knelt down beside him, frowning.

"Hey.. Red Coat, " She began, a tug on his sleeve. "This isn't exactly a good place to sleep."

She tugged again, more firmly and sighed irritably when he didn't stir. So she got down onto the ground beside him to turn to the man over, only as was going about it, a damn carriage was coming by and nearly ran the pair over, and most certainly would have if she hadn't have yanked the man along with her to throw the pair out of the way. So now she sat on the cobbles, an unconscious man over her lap and her twisted ankle twisting more.

There weren't enough swear words for her to swear at the down carriage as it past, and just when she thought that was the worst of it, the horse shit something rancid before disappearing down the way.

Missendria made a face.

"The Gods really do hate me."

Sighing, she returned her attention to Red Coat and frowned.  He still hadn't stirred.. even after all that? Damn.  Well, she wasn't about to leave him here. She supposed his situation was shifty enough. So the lamed woman struggled to stand, struggled to prop the bastard up, before hobbling their sorry asses off down another weaving way of back alleys.

It wasn't exactly an easy task. The man wasn't exactly light, and though she was no weakling, her ankle made it painful as hell to walk herself about, let alone lug him around.

She couldn't support him the whole time and eventually just ended up dragging his body over by the quiet back streets by a well. A few children had been running around playing ball and watched the two in interest. Missendria leaned against the well, hoisting up the rope to fetch the pale of water and drank greedily from the spoon attached. 

Then she proceeded to dump the rest ontop of Red.

One second, he stood swaying in the street. The next, he was falling down, down, down into the ground. It was warm there. It was comfortable. There were nice people down past the dirt. People he called friends. The ponce was there, and the girl with the horns, and so was the golden-haired girl with the temper. "Hey, Red Coat," she smiled. It wasn't her voice that came out of her. Behind them, stern and frightful, was the one he cared for most of all. Fletch reached for him. The pale man crouched before him, grasped him roughly by the shoulders, and stared deep into his eyes.

"It's time to wake up, Mr. Fletcher," he said. He shoved Fletch overboard.

Fletch plunged into the sea and came to his senses sputtering and thrashing. His heart beat a million miles a minute. He dragged himself into a sitting position against the wall. Water drenched his hair and streamed down his face in a dozen rivulets. He wiped his eyes on his sleeve. It was the wrong sleeve. "Motherf — "

Everything hurt, but his arm hurt the most. The cat. That fucking cat. Now he remembered. He glanced about wildly, his soaked chest heaving. The priss was still there. It was just the two of them. His friends must have been a dream, and that meant that this place — the place that made no sense at all — was reality.

"Fuck," he said. He turned to the woman and eyed her blearily. She'd somehow moved them both back into another alley. Either he'd blacked out and walked here himself, or... He reached up and touched his forehead. Yeah. There was a fresh bruise there. He'd passed out on the spot. He knew it was far from the first time he'd done it. This was all too familiar — as was the bucket of wake-the-hell-up she'd tossed on him. Strangely, it was the least of his worries. "You've got some muscle on you, haven't you?" he coughed. "No good doing that on a bum ankle. You needed to be on your way so bad, you should have just left me." He shivered, drew his water-laden coat a bit tighter, and patted his pockets. It was a small blessing that he'd had his tobacco stolen, or that would be drenched now, too. "Bloody freezing here. Would kill for a fag."

Missendria frowned. Cold? She placed a hand to his forehead.  Was he running with fever? Then she stepped away, anxiously moving, inspite of her ankle, as she considered just what to make of old smokey here. 

"Look, Red Coat, are you sick or drunk? Because I recommend sobering up a little more before returning to town." 

Despite the reprimand in her voice, there was also a hint of worry she couldn't snuff out.

Fletch scowled up at her hand and tried to wave it away. "Oi, oi oi. I'm fine. You can stop that." His gaze followed the woman as she stood and began to move. She was pressed for time. He wasn't imagining it. She had somewhere she needed to be. Either that, or she badly needed to use the latrine.

She turned to him again. "Look, Red Coat," she said. "Are you sick or drunk? Because I recommend sobering up a little more before returning to town."

"Red C— " He screwed up his face at her, then looked down at himself, then back again. "Right, yeah, clever. Name's Fletcher. Devlin Fletcher. Call me Fletch. And I'm er, surprisingly sober right now, thanks. As for sick..." He went dead-eyed and faded away for a moment before coming back to reality again. He didn't want to think about it. He hated knowing. He hated other people knowing. He didn't like hearing their sympathy. "No," he finished in an uncharacteristic monotone. "Not sick, either. You're zed for two." But he didn't find himself particularly convincing, and he doubted she would, either. Fletcher thought he should try to get to his feet before she really started fussing, but...could he? He closed his eyes. His heart still beat too weak and too fast. The world spun and rocked. He'd have to wait a moment more. He took a ragged breath. He opened them again.

"Go do your thing," he insisted, motioning with a jerk of his head for her to be on her way.

Oh, so he did have a name. But then he tried to shrug off whatever happened and well...
She wasn't born yesterday. 

Missendria planted a hand on her hip and gave him the look. 

"My... thing..?" She inquired, lifting up the water ladel threateningly. "Do you need a whole bucket poured over your head, Red Coat? Or do you actually believe yourself? Now... if you aren't drunk.. and you aren't sick... then what left are you?"

The woman hadn't left when he'd told her. Instead, she stood there, put her hand on her hip, and waved the well ladle at him. As if she was his mother. Fletch stared. She was one crayon short of the box, that was for damned certain. And now she was pretending that she didn't need to be anywhere. Right.

"It's Fletch," he repeated, annoyed that she'd stuck with her nickname for him. "Or Dev if you're particular." He thought he could stand now, and it was just as well. He didn't like her looming over him like this. She did remind him of his mum a bit, and he found that uncomfortable. He needed to regain what little advantage he had. Using the wall for support, he rose gingerly to his feet. There. That was better. He had a little height on her now at least. He looked her up and down and raised his eyebrows at the brandished ladle.

"Sweetheart, I'm a bloody sailor. Might as well threaten a dog with a bone. Now." Fletcher groaned and rubbed his face. He sighed. This was absurd. "Wish I were, but I'm not drunk. You'd smell it on me, and quite frankly you'd know it if I were because I'd be handsy. And I'm not sick. Not the way you were checking for, anyhow," he added. She didn't let up with the look. Why did it get to him? It shouldn't have.

He rolled his eyes. "Fine, I just...can't remember much of anything at the moment. It's all a blur. I don't know where I am. I don't know how I got here. But I'll sort it out. Always do. What do you care, anyways?" he added, squaring his shoulders again. He'd been soft for a second there. "You don't know me. I don't know you. Didn't you just say you wanted to call it even and be on your merry way?"

She.. wasn't sure how to counter that but it made her ask the same question. Why do you care? She frowned at that, feeling flustered and foolish as she shifted her weight anxiously, an action that reminded her of her exasperated injury. 

"Well, Fletch, perhaps where you're from, the common folk don't care, but as rude as you are, you did try to help me. And I'd like to think," She added on hastily. "That I'm not like the rest of 'em."

Rest of them who? And why did she care to defend herself? He was a man, a 'sailor' as he put it and before she or he could question it, she quickly added," And aren't you a little far from the ocean, Sailor boy? I mean.." she looked him over, and shook her head to shake back the airy laugh.

"Look... I might have things to do but I still, unfortunately have a conscious and if you're land sick, or whatever this is," She went on gesturing.  "I'd feel a whole lot better if I knew you'd found yourself atleast at some sort of destination of yours.."

She sighed, irritated.

"Look, I get it. You're an adult, can do what you want.. just promise me you'll be careful okay?" And she did her best to refrain from calling him Red Coat, even if it itched on her tongue.

He was gaping again. He drew a sharp breath and started some witty retort, but it died before it left his rude mouth. He wanted to be bothered by what she'd said, but she'd been nice. Of all of the things he'd been through — all of the people he'd dealt with — nice had never been part of it. Fighting and arguing and posturing was all he knew. He was hopelessly lost. Fletcher put his hands on his hips, annoyed by his own speechlessness, and tried again. "You — ergh." He bent his head and rubbed sheepishly at his forehead. He paused and looked up at her from between his fingers. She really is like Lyssy, he thought. A pang of guilt shot through his gut. He didn't know why. Still didn't know who Lyssy was, either.

"Look," he sighed. He let his hand fall back to his side. He gave it a third try. "Miss...whatever your name is. It's not...worth your time to be...helpful. You shouldn't bother. But if you're going to be stubborn..." He raised his other arm and inspected his swollen, oozing wounds. "Do you know anyone around here who can patch this up? Gangrene is the last thing my sorry arse needs on top of being lost."

She could tell he was fighting off something flippant to say. She was too observant of people not too. It only made her feel more sorry for him. He honestly seemed to be in a bind, and lost- in more ways than one. What was it called when one forgot their memories? Amnesia?

Maybe he got attacked, hit over the head and just let back here in the slums. Even more reason not to pry. Did she really need more dangerous men in her life?

And then he produced his arm, clawed up terrible as it was. She winced as she got a good look at it.

"Jack really did a number on you.." she went on with a sigh. Then she looked up at the son, contemplative a moment before she shook her head. 

"I can get you patched up and on your way. Don't think you'll die by some old cat scratches but street cats aren't exactly the cleanest lot." 

She thought over just where to take him, however, most certainly not her own place.

"Come on. Man at the inn owes me a favor and I don't have to be anywhere until evening." Couldn't take too long to patch his arm up, right? She felt guilty enough her cat did this. But.. part of her was thankful  the man hadn't tried to hurt old Jack.  She wasn't sure what she'd do if she found the old tough alley cay injured.. it worse.

"Takes a bit more than that to put me down," Fletch agreed. "Been through worse. But I'm not keen on losing an arm, and I've seen men put under the saw for smaller scrapes than this one." He grimaced at the thought, shook it off, and peered down at her foot. "Man at the inn should splint that while he's at it," he grunted. "In the meantime..."

He pushed himself upright from the wall. Would he pass out again? No, his heart had slowed a bit now. He could do it. Haggard and drenched though he was, he still had his charm. He tilted his head ever so slightly, grinned, winked, and offered his good arm for her to put her weight on. "Least I can do is keep you somewhat off it. And erm. Thanks. For wanting to help. People don't usually...do that. For me."

Missendria wasn't sure how to respond to that, not sure she wanted to test the man's strength after a collapse.

"I can manage on my own. You're ill," She went on, waving him off. "Hauled your ass here didn't I? You really wanna tempt fate so I have to do it again?"

"I'm not ill," Fletcher snorted. "Talking like I'm a decrepit old woman in need of a fainting couch. The nerve. Fine, your funeral." But he'd lost his bite, and his eyes weren't daggers anymore. He dropped his arm to his side, cast a doubtful glance at her ankle, shrugged, and waited for her to show him the way. "So," he said. "You telling me your name, love, or is that another secret in your pocket?"

Missendria hesitated. Did he.. just make a reference to her hidden package? She wasn't certain how she ought to respond, so.she simply smiled forecably before testing a few wobbling steps on her own. Once she figured out how to walk in a manner she felt was less attention getting but keeping as much weight off her leg, she motioned towards him.

"We have a few blocks to stroll to get there so be sure to keep up "

The woman ignored him, and now he still didn't know her name. Fletcher wondered why it even mattered to her. It irked him fiercely when people skirted questions like that. He added that frustration to the pile, right on top of wanting a damned smoke.

Meanwhile, his oh-so-mysterious companion stepped away and tested her ankle. She seemed to be able to walk on it well enough. Or maybe she was just good at hiding pain. Either way, she motioned for him to follow her back down the alley. "We have a few blocks to stroll to get there so be sure to keep up," she told him. Fletch set off as well and strode along beside her.

"Mm, yeah," he muttered. "Wouldn't want to fall behind with how ruddy fast you're moving, Skippy." He wrung water out of his hair and tried to smooth it back down, but it was no use. He'd be right disheveled this time as they popped back into broad daylight. He wasn't looking forward to dealing with all that confusion a second time. He coughed. "There a place I can stop and buy some baccy on the way? Won't be half a minute."

Missendria took the moment to reply to his request, not sure at first what he was asking for exactly. Then she realized he meant tobacco. 

 She wrinkled her nose. She was never fond of smokes, the smell was too.. acrid, smelly and clung to everything like moss.

"I thought we were on a time limit.." she went on, testing weight on her ankle again before beginning a slow hobble once more. Damn the thing hurt.

"Sure your arm won't fall off if we detour?"

She eyed him a moment.  He was probably too addicted to the smokes to care. 

Fletcher's face lit up. For the first time since he'd found himself in that new, miserable place, he had something to look forward to. "Arm's more likely to fall off if I don't at this point," he snorted. It didn't make any sense. He didn't care. He was desperate for something, anything, to settle his nerves. "I'm not the one on the schedule, Skippy," he reminded her. "I just need this patched up today. I won't be a moment. Just point me to a good general store along the way, that's all."

He glanced over at her as they walked, rather slowly, side-by-side. She really had banged it up. She was trying to be all stoic about it, but she was wincing every step. She'd told him to leave it be. He shouldn't have cared. But... "Oh, for..." Fletcher stopped in his tracks, rolled his eyes dramatically at the narrow slit of sky above them, and began to pull his tucked in shirt out of his trousers. "I can't. This is stupid. Come here. Sit down. Take your boot off. I'm putting a fucking splint on it." He pointed to a barrel for her to take a seat. Then he patted his sides, found his belt knife, produced it, and, sighing at the idea of having to shred his only shirt, began to cut strips from it.

Wow. She blinked. He actually looked.. happy. She couldn't help but smile a little in turn but shook her head to shake it off. She didn't need his moods to be infectious.

But at his quip about timing.. it was her turn to roll her eyes. Wasn't he worried about his arm going green or something? Honestly, cat scratches were the least of his concerns, she was sure. But he DID keep pressing about her agenda. She eyed him skeptically as she hobbled along.

Then he stopped and she paused to rest against a wall, taking the weight off her leg and sighing thankfully for it.  Then he drew out a knife and...
As he began to cut into the fabric, she reacted without thinking and grabbed onto his arm to stop him.

"What are doing!?"

It was the wrong fucking arm again. "Aagh!" Fletch cried out as she pressed shreds of his coat sleeve back into his open wounds. Instinctively, he tried to shake her grip, but he only succeeded in pulling the cuts open further. His knife slipped as he thrashed and he nicked a fresh slice into his thumb. "Ffffff — " He brought it to his mouth and sucked at it, wincing. He shot her a threatening glare. "What the bleeding hell did you do that for?" he exclaimed from around his hand. Then —

"Right. Nope. You're not getting out of this. Hand off me arm. Sit the hell down. On the barrel. Take your damned boot off. Now." He removed his still bleeding thumb from his mouth, waggled the dagger at her to underscore his point, and then went back to cutting strips for a splint. He shook his head. "Un-fucking-believable, honestly," he muttered beneath his breath as his shirt grew shorter by the minute. "You're worse than my bloody brothers."

She forgot about his injured arm in the moment. She yanked her arm back as he shook her away- and then he got mad.

She folded her arms and gave him a look before plopping down to sit.

"I thought we were supposed to be heading to get your smoke flakes," She went on, sighing as she worked at the laces. She needed to rest her foot on a lower barrel and made sure to keep her skirts flattened down proper and shifted to keep her pocket with the package as consealed as she could, but it blended it pretty easily with the layers of her skirts.

She sat back up once her foot was free and grimaced at it. It was already getting pretty swollen.  Then she unceremoniously offered up the foot, perhaps exaggerating a stretch it with it more than was necessary.

"Okay Doctor Red Coat, boot is off."

And then a craggy head popped up from a nearby pile of raggedy old blankets and scared the shit out of Missendria as she screamed and threw herself bodily into Fletch out of pure reflex and with their weight combined, knocked the pair clean off the barrels.

The pile of blankets stumbled to stand, stick thij old man bird legs holding up the raggedy man as he moved over towards the fallen pair like a chicken. He peered down at the and flashed them a gross smelling, toothless grin.

"Ohh, a free show!"

Free show- that's when Missendria realized how high up her skirts had gotten tangled and immediately began to yank them down more properly.

"I thought we were supposed to be heading to get your smoke flakes," Skippy nagged him. But she did as she was told, for once. It was good that she had. He wasn't particularly keen on fighting a woman just to fix a twisted ankle. It might come off wrong to a casual observer, and he didn't want to land in jail that quickly.

"Yeah, look, believe you me, I'm jonesing. But this clearly cannot wait." He finished cutting up the bottom of his shirt, stowed the strips in his coat, and tucked the ragged edge back in. He patted his pockets then glanced around them. He'd need something a bit sturdier than shirt cloth to tie onto her leg. "Shit," he muttered. There was nothing. He'd have to use his belt. "Great. Wonderful." He got to work on his buckle. Now he'd really look disheveled. And anyone watching would really think he was being a lech. "It's not what you think — " he began to explain, looking back up at her. He stopped mid-sentence and stifled a snort at the sight of her trying her very best to be modest. "Oh, so she is proper," he chuckled.

Finally, boot off and tossed aside, Skippy set her foot out for him to get to work. "Okay Doctor Red Coat, boot is off."

Fletcher scowled. "It's Fl — "

Without warning, a bum rolled over and began to rise to his feet. He hadn't noticed the old man. He should have seen him as they passed, but he'd been distracted. Now it all happened in a matter of seconds. Startled, the woman screamed and barreled into Fletcher, sending them both backwards into the opposite wall. He dropped his belt in surprise and turned his other wrist just in time for her to narrowly miss his brandished belt knife.

His heart began to beat off rhythm again. The vertigo rushed back. Fletch pried her off of him as best he could and stepped in front of her as the bum hobbled towards them. He didn't look particularly tough. Fletch thought he could take him. "Ohh, a free show!" the man cackled, craning his wrinkled neck to try to catch a glimpse of Skippy.

"Show's over, mate," Fletcher barked. He reached for something on his bandolier. His hand hit shirt. There was no bandolier. He looked down. What exactly had he been trying to grab? Something that would have ended this before it began, that was for certain. But all he had on him was the knife. "Right," he muttered to himself, and held the blade up. "Guess we're doing this the old-fashioned way." He straightened as tall as he could. "See this?" he addressed the old man. "This is the difference between a good day and a bad day. You walk away, you have a good day. That means you keep your insides, inside. You get any closer, well. Then it's goodnight for you, isn't it? Now I've had — " he began to laugh the kind of laugh of a man at his wits end. His left eye twitched. "I've had about enough of this day, myself, and I am just itching to pass that along to the first man who asks for it. So what'll it be? Hmm?"

Frazzled as she was, Missendria knew the old beggar and finally found herself able to speak, a hand on Fletch's arm.

"Fletch, wait!" She moved to stand between the pair, giving Fletch a look, then the street beggar.

"Marvis, you know better than to scare a girl! ANd free show?" She gave him a reprimanded look but the old man just continued to grin.

"Can't blame an old man. It's been some ages since I've had a good snogging."

Missendria made a face. That was not the image sge wanted right now. She shook her head then glanced back towards Fletch.

"Put down your knife. He's harmless."

Marvis held into his grin as he eyed the man.

"Don't stop on account of me!" He said, licking his lips.  "I won't tell!"

For the third time, it was the wrong arm, but Fletcher, a rabid dog in any scrap, ignored her grasp. He scoffed, deeply annoyed that he'd been pulled back from letting loose. "You know this ugly bastard?" he exclaimed, gesticulating with the knife both violently and dangerously close to the bum's face. He felt his face grow hot. His heart beat too fast in his ears. But, slowly, the wind left his sails. "Could've bloody well told me before I went off on him." Reluctantly, he lowered the knife. He did, however, keep a firm grip on the handle. Distantly, he registered the two of them bantering, but something nagged at his attention.

Wait, he thought. Wait, wait, wait. Miss Priss knew a bum by name. So. She spent time around the dregs of society. Enough to be on first-name terms. But she'd been horrified at the slightest act of public impropriety out in the street. And she kept hiding things from him every other sentence. Fletcher mulled it all over with a begrudging interest. He looked her up and down as she addressed the man she'd called Marvis. He wondered if she was a little closer to his ilk than he'd first pegged her as. He raised an eyebrow. Well I'll be, Skippy, he thought. Now she was interesting.

"Huh," he grunted. "Well. If your friend here is really harmless, and you two are done having your little tea party: sit back down and let me finish binding that damned ankle. Please," he added with a sardonic flourish of the wrist.

Missendria glared at Marvis then Fletch. But she rolled her eyes and stubbornly obeyed, glaring again to Marvis as he cackled.

And then the old man began to hobble closer to the pair, using nearby barrels to support his weaker gait.

"Haven't seen you around lately, deary. Got any.. packages for me.. hrmm?" The man asked, trying to be somewhat conspicuous but also.. not.

It earned him another glare.

"Marvis, go back to your pile of rags!"

Fletch stooped to grab his belt off the ground. He brushed the filth and muck from it as best as he could. He thought Skippy might be the squeamish sort, and he could just see her kicking him in the nose rather than letting him bind her ankle with dirty leather. Behind him, the two of them bickered. He kept a keen ear towards them, but he kept it subtle. Packages, huh, he thought. No one of respectable means lurked in alleys talking to bums about packages. He wondered if she ran clandestine errands for someone. Maybe she did dead drops. Maybe that meant she'd be a useful friend to have. Someone with connections. Someone who could help him get his land legs in this place.

Well. He'd just have to wait and see, wouldn't he.

"Right," Fletch said as he stowed his knife and turned back to face them. He brushed his coat aside and plopped abruptly down in front of her. He pulled the shirt scraps out of his pocket and laid them over his leg, then set the belt under her foot like a stirrup. "You ready, then?" he asked, but he didn't wait for an answer. Frankly, he didn't care if she was. He wanted away from this smelly old man and he wanted his damned smokes. Before she could respond, he wrapped the belt up and over, crossed it around her ankle a few times, and began to tie it in place with the scraps.

He raised his old withered hand up to his mouth and attempted a whisper. 
"It's been a few months, you know."

Missendria gave him the death glare.

"Marvis, go back to your pile of old rags before I get angry. "

Except the old man didn't listen and wobbled over closer to Fletch.

"That's a strange way to fondle a lady. Here I thought a man was to undress his girl, not wrap her feet!"

"Marvis," She hissed, warningly. 

"Her ties are in the back," Marvis Whispered to Fletch. "Bet those strong hands could take 'em off with one good yank!"

"Marvis!" Missendria shouted, standing up suddenly. "Out of the alley.  Out!"

But the old man was snickering as he made his retreat, calling over the Fletch. 
"Scissors work, too!"

Missendria threw an old boot at him before he disappeared around the bend.

The old man hobbled closer until Fletch could smell his breath. And the rest of him. He screwed his face up at the stench but kept his eyes on his work. "Eugh...do you just go around eating nothing but onions all day? What is that?" he murmured. The bum bent over him. Fletcher's eyes flitted down to his knife for a split second. He tensed.

"That's a strange way to fondle a lady. Here I thought a man was to undress his girl, not wrap her feet!" the old man exclaimed.

Skippy shushed him. Maybe she was fine with having a captive audience, but Fletch wasn't keen on it. He sat up, still clutching a strip of fabric at both ends and midway through tying a knot. He gave the man a warning look. Something about all of this was sort of amusing, but he wasn't about to let his prowess with women be questioned. "Not my girl. Certainly not taking her clothes off in an alley. I'd have a bit — more — finesse — than that — thank you," he said, pausing between words as he tightened up the last knot on the brace. "There. Done. Give it some weight. Should be good enough for now."

He stood and put some distance between himself and the bum, but the old man scooted along next to him. "Her ties are in the back," he whispered. "Bet those strong hands could take 'em off with one good yank!"

"Do I look like I don't know my way past a corset?" Fletch blurted out before he could stop himself. "And don't you have somewhere else to skulk around and be — "

But Skippy, to his surprise, seemed just as done with the bum as he was. Without warning, she stood up from the barrel, bent, grabbed a boot, and lobbed it bodily down the alley after him, narrowly missing his head. Fletch watched the unwelcome intruder disappear around the corner. He started to chuckle. "You've got good aim, Skippy. You any good with darts?" He turned back towards her. Then he remembered what he'd said in front of her and his ears went hot again. He cleared his throat.

"Odd company you keep," he said, doing his very best to divert from that particular topic. The last thing he needed was for someone useful to think he was a lech. "Well. Let's get going, then. I think I'd prefer the people out in the street staring at me to the ones back here. I'm sure you do, too. Ones back here certainly know you quite well."

Missendria gave him a look. She was tired of the circus she always had to deal with. She especially  didn't need Fletch labeling her as their 'friends'.

She tested her weight on her foot and managed to hobble better on it.

"Come on, let's get you your tobacco before even I decide to pick up the habit. "

She was never fond of smokes. Never liked the smell. But.. as Marvis proved, there could be far worse smells in the world. 

She had lead the pair around a few more narrow, back alleys before they returned to a smaller, yet still fairly populated section of the city, where there was no less colors than Fletch had seen before.

She held onto her skirts and proceeded across the street.

"The Copper House should have a few brands of flakes." but as she approached she paused, frowning as she looked at the sign posted on the door.

"Well.. looks like they're closed. "

She frowned. How.. odd. And during such a busy time? Others passed by and seemed to think the same. But there wasn't much for it. She sighed. 

"Come on. There's another shop a few more blocks that way." And she began the next hobbling course with as much pride and patience as she could muster, but walking with a compromised ankle was exhausting. 

He wasn't sure which he hated less: the dingy back alleys away from public view, or these bright, unfamiliar streets and throngs of people. If he knew where he was, he'd be perfectly happy in a crowd. But as it was, he felt like he had a target on his back.

Still, Skippy led him with the practiced, albeit shuffling footwork of a woman well familiar with this part of town. As he followed, he watched her, his interest piqued by all she'd kept hidden. She was not just some priss who'd set her cat on him. Now she was a puzzle to be solved. And the more he looked for the signs, the more he saw that she knew what she was doing. And he was impressed. He almost forgot where they'd been going in the first place.

Right. Tobacco.

The first shop they approached was closed. She motioned for him to follow to another. She seemed confused. Almost frustrated. It was fine, though. He thought he could hold out a few more blocks while he sorted through all of this. He could —

"You're shitting me."

Fletcher did a double take, stopped in his tracks, and peered across the street. It couldn't be. Nobody was that stupid to stand out in full view with their pilfered earnings. But no. There they were, plain as day: the little twats who'd tried to rob him while he lay prone and disoriented. The two of them leaned against the wall of the far building. The cherry on top: they were smoking his cigarettes. "Ohoho," he chuckled under his breath, but it was a mean kind of laugh. "Is that so? Is...that...so." He clapped Skippy on the shoulder without so much as a warning. Hell, he didn't even look her in the eyes, but kept his own trained on his vertically-challenged targets like a predator on prey. He looked positively, menacingly gleeful. "I'll just be a moment," he murmured as he slipped away and wound around gaggles of oddly-dressed women and stuffy-looking men.

The urchins spotted their sailor victim far too late. By the time they had, and their beady little eyes went wide and their dirty mouths gaped open, he'd closed the distance between him and them and scruffed them both by the shirts. He held them there against the wall, immobile, grinning like a maniac first at one, then the other. "First rule of pickpocketing," he began, his voice dangerously silky. "You don't go and celebrate it for all to see. Ey? Now give me that. You're too young to be smoking." In one swift motion, he released the one on the left, plucked the lit cigarette from his mouth, and popped it in his own. He grabbed the kid's shirt again and took a drag, ignoring the sound of their whimpering as that first blessed pull of smoke rolled into his lungs. "Right," he growled. "Now you know as well as I that you don't fuck with a man's baccy. So I'll only ask this once: which one of you has the rest of it?"

Missendria scrunched her face.

"What? Where are you going?" She called after, annoyed as she held onto her skirts and wobbled after- only to pause as she watched Fletch assault a group of children.

"Oh for Kia's sake.." 

She wasn't about to let Fletch accost the boys without repricussions, but as she made her way over and realized what Fletch was doing...

She folded her arms across her chest.

"Is this really necessary, Fletch?"

She eyed the boys- just the usual street urchins. 

"I thought we were going to buy you some? Not shake down the pockets of.. well.. pick pockets."

The boy on the right produced his tobacco pouch with a quickness. Fletcher scowled at him, dropped the little shit's collar, snatched his stolen possession back, and stuffed it securely in his coat pocket. He thought about cuffing the lads. He really thought about it.

"Is this really necessary, Fletch?" As if on cue, Skippy hobbled up beside him. Fletcher jumped. He hadn't expected her to sneak up on him like that. "I thought we were going to buy you some? Not shake down the pockets of...well...pick pockets."

He sniffed and looked between the two terrified, speechless urchins. He thought better of his original plan. He released his grip on the children and backed away. "Go on," he grunted, and gestured with his head for them to scram. He watched them book it away. They didn't even look back. "And be smart about it next time! You halfwits," he barked after them. Then he turned back to Skippy, stared a moment, took another drag, and blew it away from her face. He raised his eyebrows at her criticism. "Only getting back what was mine," he said, "and teaching a couple of absolute cabbages what not to do. Besides. Now that's one thing off the list you have to worry about, ey? So let's find this man and this inn of yours, and get you and me patched up."

Missendria sighed. All of this hobbling around was doing a number on her. But she (well eventually..) had things to do and she had promised to help. Of course, she was becoming grumpy and rethinking her life choices.

She took a moment to rest her ankle, not looking forward to walking on it again. They didn't have to to terribly far.. but with her ankle as sore as it was, a few steps made simply walking a chore.

She took this time to also watch the kids disappear around an street corner, one hand to her hip.
"Doubt you'll see those two again."

She eyed puff and stuff and nodded.

"You sure there won't be any more.." and she paused in midstride to him up and down. "Distractions ?" She gave a reflexive fluff to her hair before continuing to lead the pair down the way.

Skippy was nagging again, but Fletcher took his time. He savored the moment. Every drag he took soothed his agitated mind. The things that had irked him — those little brats, then the cat, then the bum — began to melt, giving way to clear, simple focus. "Alright," he said to himself as it all lined up in front of him. He had a job to do. Now he could do it proper. First: get the arm cleaned and salved and bandaged. That much was obvious. Then: figure out where in the hell he was, who to talk to, and how to get his boots under him for a minute. And Skippy could help with both, if he played her strings right.

The thing she couldn't help him with was deeper, and he might have to find the bottom of a bottle for it to come into view.

He returned his attention to the woman and flashed a winning smile. Now that he'd gotten what he wanted and knew where he was going, he looked for all intents and purposes like a different man. Or at least a calmer, more amicable one. "Got what I came for. No more distractions, love," he confirmed with a casual salute off his brow. "So let's be off." He glanced down at her ankle and saw that she'd shifted her weight off it. He tutted. "Yeah, that's not going to hold, is it? Come here. Take your weight off it. No arguments, now, or you'll make a scene. And we can't have that, can we?" He held his good arm out for her expectantly.

Missendria took a step back, reflexively.  She stared at the offered arm before looking up at Fletch.  Why did she want to shove his grin back inside his face? And why was she being so adverse to his help?

Then she roughly latched onto his arm and gave a grumbling huff as she rolled her eyes.
"You smell like an ash tray. " she shook her head. "But let's just get on with it. You know.." she gave a jerk of her head to try to get her blonde hair out from her eyes. It just settled back where it was. "So that arm of yours doesn't fall clean off."

They started forward again. Skippy certainly put on a convincing show. The way she huffed and scowled, Fletcher thought he might have flustered her a bit. He chuckled. Something about it gave him a kick. She'd been so uptight. So bloody bossy. Now he'd found a gap in the armor; a button to push. Odd that it was chivalry of all things, but...he shrugged. Women weren't meant to be fully understood, were they? "You must not have met many sailors, then, if that's a surprise to you," he countered, still grinning. He nodded towards a couple of men as they passed by. "You could go hang on one of these fops' arms if you want to smell eau de useless wanker instead. Doubtful they'd get you to a medic, though." He cocked his head knowingly. "And then you wouldn't be able to run your perfectly legal errands, ey?"

Missendria flashed him a sharp look. What was his game here? Why did he keep brining up things about her.. as if he knew.

Her gaze grew suddenly hot and guarded, and before he could think better of it, she shoved the man up against a nearby wall (once they were at a corner where no one could see) and he'd feel a cold blade poking at his side as anger continued to flash defiantly in her eyes.

"What games you playin' here, Red?" She demanded, the words tart and low as she kept that unyielding gaze upon his.

"I'm not a fan of surprises, and you're acting too obvious in your interests to be some passing stranger."

Did he work for her boss? Or some other of those damn spidery crime Lord in the city?

One second he'd been ribbing her and thinking little of it. The next, he was up against a wall with a blade tearing a new hole in his already ruined shirt. Skippy glowered up at him like a little dog with a big bark. Before he could stop himself, he began to laugh — first a wheeze, then a quiet chuckle. Then he descended into a coughing fit and turned his head away from her and into his shoulder. With every shake, the blade wobbled a little further in until it began to cut flesh. Fletch wasn't particularly concerned. She wouldn't shank a man in broad daylight. She wasn't the sort. She was just mad that he'd figured it out.

"Huh," he smirked. "So I'm right." Slowly, he raised his good hand, palm out so she knew he was unarmed, and took one final drag before tossing the cigarette butt to the street. He regarded her again, his cough barely contained. He tasted iron on his tongue. He swallowed the blood away and the mirth drained from his face. "Not playing games. Don't think I've told you anything but the truth, actually," he replied, keeping his voice low and steady. "I don't know this place. I don't know anyone here but you, your shit cat, and your old man friend. I was just messing with you — honest to the emperor. And it's taken me a bit to figure it out, but you aren't flawless at keeping your secrets secret, love. Especially — "

Fletch stopped mid-sentence. He glanced over her shoulder and out into the narrow slit of visible street. His amber eyes widened, then narrowed in suspicion. He looked back at Skippy. "It can wait. You know you're being followed, yeah? Don't look now. That woman, there, in the blue. And that man with the stupid coat. Third time they've passed by, now. They friends of yours?"

Was he.. was he laughing at her!? Her face turned red with anger.. and maybe a little bit of embarrassment before she slipped the blade away. Was she that obvious? She prided herself in her covert ways, wanting to keep her less than legal lifestyle unobtrusive yet.. thus stranger saw right through her.


She supposed the incident in the alley only cemented any speculations Fletch had. But ordinary folks didn't rightly look for the things Fletch was pointing out and she had to wonder what sort of life he lived before someone 'apparently ' dumped his ass here.

She supposed She could press him on that later. He said they were bring followed... and she nonchalantly caught a glimpse of the pair the man was talking about. They weren't familiar to her. And this made her frown. 

"No.." she hissed under her breath. "I don't recognize them at all " And she knew this side of the city rather well. However.. it was a very big city and she would never boast knowing everyone.

She eyed Fletch and muttered. "It's probably just your paranoia. This is a busy street."

And yet....
She was trying her best to think if she might have seen either of the women elsewhere. 

"We... Should keep moving. At this rate you'll lose both arms if we don't get your head checked. " And she hastily yanked him from the wall and dragged him along until he was keeping pace.

Fletcher kept one eye on the strangers while he watched Skippy mull it over. She'd turned an impressive shade of red, but as funny as she looked, he didn't dare laugh at her again. Leastwise, not when he needed her help. He could almost hear the gears turning in her pretty head. What he'd said was true: rare as it was, he hadn't told her a lie since he got here — wherever 'here' was. At last, he felt the blade leave the tiny notch it had cut in his side. She stowed it and released him.

"I'm not paranoid," Fletch murmured as he brushed himself off. "I just know to keep an eye on my arse, that's all. Especially when all either of us has are knives, fists, and wounds." He shot another furtive glance around the corner. He couldn't see the strangers. The two must have realized they'd been spotted. "Shit," he said. If they were being followed, their tail would just be more careful now. Before he could give it a second thought, Skippy scruffed him and pulled him bodily off of the wall.

"Oi! Let me go, you daft cunt. I can walk just fine." He stumbled after her and did his best to pry her fingers off of him as they burst back out into the main street. "My head is on perfectly straight, thanks," he grumbled. "How much farther to the inn? You make a man need to drink."

Missendria seemed unaffected by most of his come backs. But when he said the last.. about what 'make a man need to drink' she stiffened visibly at the remark, needing to turn away. 

She didn't need to be reminded of him or her failings right now. She just had to get this man to the inn and that would be that.

"It's just a few blocks away," came her terse reply, eyes glued to the road ahead. "Then you can suck down your alcohol," She spat. "Or whatever it is you had plans to do in this city."

And true enough, the inn wasn't far away, and once she saw it appear at the end of the road, she began to walk a little faster.

She'd gone from hot to cold in a matter of seconds. She might as well have sucked all the sunshine from the air around them. A familiar, instinctive jolt of panic struck him in the gut. It felt awfully like when he'd disappointed his mum. Or when he'd gone one step too far with...a friend. A wince flashed momentarily across Fletcher's face before he pulled it back into his usual hardened-yet-charming expression. Surely he didn't feel guilty. Did he? No. Why would he? He hadn't said a damned thing to offend. Still, though, Skippy wasn't happy with him. That much was for certain. And if he botched this, who knew if he'd find someone else to show him what was what.

He realized he'd been quiet for a while. He cleared his throat rather awkwardly. "Erm. Look. I'm...sorry. I didn't mean to call you that. You're not daft. You caught me off guard, that's all." He shot her an apologetic grin. "How's about I buy you a pint? Least I can do with you showing me the ropes."

She sighed, realizing she was being too short and.. open. Although, did it really matter if she was being transparent? Who was he to her anyway?

At his suggestion, she eyed him suspiciously.
God's she probably could use a drink. But she preferred to remain sober.. most of the time.

She shook her head.
"Look, Red Coat, we've just gone through some interesting situations in the span of what.. five minutes since we met? Just call it a girl being grumpy from over stimulation." Because sure.. that was all of it..
"Besides, that's it. Ye'lard's Place. Inn and Grub. Ain't too large or fancy, but it's nice all the same."

And the more she thought about it.. they might have that good pork and potatoe soup that night. She eyed Fletcher as the approached the front.

"Don't worry about my mood. And calling me crazy ain't exactly an insult.. considering the conpany," she went on, tucking back a smirk as she moved to open the door.

Fletcher ignored being addressed as Red Coat for the fortieth time, screwed up his face, and silently mouthed the word, "Overstimulation?" Sure, he thought. Now who's dishonest? He peered through the dingy window of the establishment Skippy had called "Ye'lard's Place." It looked like the common room of any other inn. A few patrons milled about inside, but it seemed rather quiet for the most part. He shrugged. "Fair bit nicer than my usual haunts, if you'd believe it." He was sure she would. She seemed to have formed an opinion of him as a vagabond shy a few marbles. But the more he came across as a sad, lost puppy, the more Skippy had been willing to throw him a bone. So maybe it wasn't a terrible thing that she saw him that way, after all.

Skippy moved to open the door. She was still limping ever so slightly — likely fucking up her foot even more in the process, the stubborn woman. "Don't make it worse on your ankle. Here," Fletch muttered. He grasped the door handle and performed an admirable impression of a man who was actually decent. "In you go, now. Let's find your man." He motioned for her to enter. But he hung back, hesitating at the threshold, and glanced again over his shoulder. The two who'd been tailing them were nowhere to be seen. Still. Call it sailor's intuition, but he felt them. Were they here for his unlikely companion? Or were they, for whatever godforsaken reason, looking for him?

He shut the door firmly behind him and followed Skippy into the inn.

She shot him a look when he got the door for her, but said nothing. As the pair entered the place, she sighed and took a moment to relax against the wall.

"Feel free to sit over by the hearth.  I'll go fetch Ye'lard. "

He'll likely be in the kitchen. She thought, still taking the moment to rest up her ankle and muster up the energy to walk on it again. But then she spotted Nola, Ye'lard's wife, scuttling off towards the kitchen. That was.. odd..normally the woman was almost too quick to greet her when she showed up. But then a moment later, the kitchen door was flung open and a man who was so massive he could barely fit through the thing stepped out, a sizzling plan cooking meats in one hand - the other holding open the door.

"Bless the makers name ! Missendria! It's been ages!" The man bellowed excitedly as he charged over towards the woman and picked her up in a strong hug- lifting her clean off the ground and somehow not burning her nor dropping his pan in the process.
"Young lady, it's been too long! And look at you.. have you done so something to your hair? And why.. that blush can't be just for me.."

Once she was set down, the big man realized she was in pain and dropped the pan onto a table.

"You're hurt!" He turned to the kitchen. "Nola! Quick! Bring the potion book!"

The woman nodded, disappearing into the back while Ye'lard continued to fuss. Missendria was indeed blushing as she tried to get the man to calm down as she interjected,"Yes! I know.. I hurt my ankle! But I didn't come here for me. I-"

She didn't get a chance to explain Red Coat when the large man caught sight of him.. and his face exploded into a big smile of laughter.

"Missendry.. you didn't tell me you finally got yourself a man!"

"Erm...later, I think," Fletch replied distractedly, and stood in place instead of taking the seat she'd pointed him towards. He glanced at the door again and his stomach turned. He couldn't help but be just a bit on edge. But it wasn't long before a man — a massive man — squeezed through the kitchen door and called what sounded like a woman's name. Wait, Fletcher realized. It was her name.

"Missendria?" he wheezed to himself, trying desperately to contain a smirk. "Well I'll be a rat's left nut. Skippy's got a bloody name. Fucking Missendria." It was such a flowery one, like something he'd expect of a noblewoman in a frilly dress. Not of...her. He thought she'd be a Faye, or a Morgana, or something hard and practical like that. He watched, still keeping his amusement just barely under wraps. And then he stared as the man he supposed was Ye'lard lifted Skippy off her feet and into a bone-crushing hug. His jaw hung open, now suddenly devoid of any hint of a smile. Was this how men were with women here? It seemed absurdly forward. But no — Skippy didn't seem particularly happy about it, either. She'd flushed furiously again as the man and his wife fussed over her.

Fletcher shrunk into the background, sizing these strangers up and eyeing the exit, but it was too late. The big guy spotted him. He stared back, unsure whether he was about to be embraced as well or whacked over the head with that menacing cast iron. Instead, the man looked him over, straightened, and barked a deafening laugh. "Missendry.. you didn't tell me you finally got yourself a man!"

Fletch choked, caught it, and turned it into an unconvincing cough. He tried to gauge how murderous Skippy was. He assumed the answer was 'very.' He cleared his throat again and did his damnedest to rein in his gruff sailor's mannerisms. "Erm. No. Sorry. Hate to disappoint, but er...Sk— I mean, Missy and I aren't — I don't think I'm exactly her type — look, d'you mind if we skip the formalities? The woman's been on that ruddy ankle more than is good for her, and I'm not a proper medic." There, he thought. Hopefully it was enough to keep her from shanking him later. As if on cue, his arm stung something fierce again. He winced at it and peeled back his coat sleeve.

"And er...I think I might need a bit of help, too," he added sheepishly, and brandished his sliced, bloodied forearm as proof. "If you wouldn't mind. I can pay."

The big man raised a dark, shaggy brow. He looked the lankier man over.

"Oh? Ye saying yer not Missendry's gent yet?" He went on with a playful elbow to the other's ribs. "Do I gotta play her match maker?" He went on, waggling his brows. But then their situation was explained and the big man turned serious. 
"Land's end.. you poor blokes. Well, be off with yet jacket and you-" he pointed to Missendria with a finger. "Get off yer feet lass before ye make yer man upset. Seein' as he's worryin' about you and all like yer married. I'll go help fetch up some supplied with Nola. Since don't you go no where!" And he heated up the pan and called after Nola to get the bandages.

Missendrua dropped into a seat, sighing. She was happy to be off her feet, already working at the laces of her shoes and avoiding looking over at Fletch.

"You'll have to.. forgive Ye'lard. He's...very... friendly. "

Fletcher rubbed at his side where Ye'lard had elbowed him as he watched the man disappear into the kitchen again with a look he usually reserved for crazy people. He took in a sharp breath through his teeth. The spot was, incidentally, where Skippy's knife had nicked him a few minutes earlier. "Today just keeps getting better and better," he muttered. "Got more battle damage than from an actual sodding battle." Not that he'd ever been in one. Gingerly, he pulled his arm out of his ruined coat, then the other, and tossed it carelessly over the back of a nearby chair. He examined his front. His fingers brushed over a previous repair job: a row of perfect, neat stitches, sewn with care, that ran like a knitted scar across the fabric. He had no recollection of them. It was someone else's handiwork, but he couldn't seem to remember whose. He thought he could just see pale fingers and a needle glinting by the light of a campfire. He blinked and shook his head. "I think I need a new shirt on top of it all," he complained, more to himself than to her. "Not that I'll have the coin for it."

Fletch frowned and straightened up, returning his attention to Skippy. He thought he'd let her do her own shoes, this time. She'd probably kick him in the face if he tried to take them off again. Not to mention that the man in the kitchen would use it as fodder to insist that he was sweet on a complete fucking stranger. "Yeah, friendly's one word for it," he snorted, adopting his hardened, acerbic tone again. "And I think your friend needs his eyes checked. He's imagining things. Clearly," Fletcher added, as if his irritation wasn't already abundantly apparent. He looked her over. It wasn't that he wouldn't. She was plenty easy to look at. Something just...stood in the way. Like he'd been shackled to someone else's rules, and those rules had told him not to hurt her. He scowled. He didn't like that feeling at all.

Behind him, a little bell tinkled as the door swung open, breaking his train of thought. Fletcher turned, compelled by his intuition's insistence that they were still being followed. But the pair that had entered — two more city boys, by the looks of them — weren't the same as those he'd spotted before. He shrugged, dug around in his pocket, produced another cigarette, and popped it in his mouth. Maybe he'd been wrong, after all.

Missendria sighed with relief once her damned shoes were off. She curled her toes, stretching as she winced. At his remarks she just gave him a look, before turning towards Nola as she approached Fletcher. 

"Can I see your arm? Ye'lard told me it's clawed up something fierce." 

She held a mixture of sine kind in a bowl held against her belly, and looked the man over with patient concern. 

"Mm. Yeah. Right. Gimme a mo'." Fletch nodded as he muttered around the cigarette. He'd just pulled out his match box as the woman approached, and he intended to use it. He slid one out and struck it against the rough surface of a nearby sconce. When he was satisfied that he'd lit up, he shook it out, licked his fingers, pinched the charred end, glanced about him expectantly, and, when he realized that this wasn't the kind of establishment that had spittoons, stowed it sheepishly in his pocket. He awkwardly cleared his throat again and proffered his bloodied, shredded, dirty arm.

"It just needs a bit better cleaning than whiskey'll do," he explained. "That's all." He sounded overly gruff even by his own ears. Under no circumstances did he want to have to explain that a cat did this to him, particularly not to this woman and her unhinged husband. He hoped she wouldn't ask. "Er...maybe some clean bandages, too," he added, and then, like the word was entirely foreign to him, he remembered: "Erm. Please."

Nola gasped at the offered arm.
"What in land's name did that. Oh, you poor thing!" The old woman crooned. She didn't waste much time, fetching a water from a table and poured it over the cuts to do an initial cleaning. Then she gently pat it dry, apologizing.
"I bet these sting something fierce! Get in a fight with a mountain lion, love?"

'You could say that,' Missendria thought. While Nola fussed over Fletcher, Ye'lard returned and was tending to her leg. She lounged back in her chair while the big man set to work tightening up some bandages.  While he worked, she took a moment to study Fletcher.

What an odd fellow. He looked like he could be Adelan.. Essryni maybe. Or was he an islander? Strange how he reacted to the city.. as if he'd never been here before. Or so he had claimed.  Maybe he was an islander? Those folk were typically.. interesting. But why all the way inland here? The coast was several days travel and there were plenty of large cities he could have done any manner of business on the coast.

But he genuinely looked.. lost. It's perhaps why she took pity on the fool. Although she used to be sweet on those who were tall, dark and handsome- that quality now a days left her on edge.

One broken heart.. one cold chain was enough.

Nola was applying the ointment on the bowl now to Fletcher's wounds.
"This will keep off the pain and keep it from getting irritated or worse. Apply a few times and day and you just might keep that arm," She then added with a chuckle.

"Don't humor him, Nola. He already thinks those cat scratches mean he'll lose an arm. " she smirked at that, feeling a lot more at ease and comfortable in this place. She could joke.. relax abit... like it were a second home.

Fletch puffed away as the woman Nola got to work on his arm. He watched her, brow twitching, his expression a mix of bemusement and a distinctly uncharacteristic puppy-like wistfulness. He wasn't used to this. Being tended to. Being doted on. Even Roland used to just hand him the belt and tell him to bite down. "Yeah, no, it's...it's nothing," he murmured as she fussed about the pain she was causing him. "Erm. Heh. Something like that. Ma'am," he said rather distractedly when she asked if it had been a lion.

Skippy's sardonic voice snapped him out of it. "Don't humor him, Nola," she called from where she sat. "He already thinks those cat scratches mean he'll lose an arm."

Fletcher shot her a look over his shoulder like he was ready to smack her. "Not what I fu— " He remembered where they were and caught his tongue just in the nick of time. A breath hissed out through his nostrils as he deflated like a balloon. "Very funny," he grumbled. "She's a real joker." Then he took the salve from Nola and his expression softened right back up again. "Erm. Thank you, ma'am. Really," he told her, looking a bit sheepish now. "What do I owe you?" Behind her, the two new patrons shifted on their seats. Fletch pretended to ignore them. He kept his eyes trained squarely on Nola. There was something odd about them, though. Something unsettling. They hadn't ordered a damned thing. Just sat there, still, like they were waiting for someone.

The bell rang as the door opened once again. "You usually this busy at midday?" Fletch grinned at her, but his eyes had gone cold and fearful. "Must be a popular establishment, then."

As Fletcher had mentioned the new folks, it seemed Ye'lard and Nola were quick to wave it off.
"Strange folk all the time. They'll eventually order. Probably waiting on the rest of their crew."

Missendria would have noticed the men's arrival were she not so distracted teasing Fletch and taking a moment to just... relax. As she remained reclined in her chair, bound leg propped up on another one, she let herself sigh away the stress she had been carrying.

"Say, Ye'lard. You got any pork and potatoe soup?" She asked sweetly.  In fact her demeanor had changed so much it seemed wrong she hadn't batted her lashes at the older man.

Ye'lard barked out a laugh.
"I think we have enough for a couple o'bowls."

"You relax," Nola said, gathering up her things.  "I'll go fetch you a bowl." She patted Fletch upon his shoulder in a motherly fashion before moving back into the kitchen. Ye'lard followed, promising a delicious roast quail special.

Missendria sighed again, lounging in her chair as she stared up at rhe ceiling. But instincts were instincts, and when another entered the place, she stiffened. 

The man who had entered was cloaked so you couldn't see much of his face and moved to a table opposite the room of the other men that had entered.  And as she let her eyes discreetly study the other two tables, she realized they had chosen places by each exit or window... and essentially had them boxed in. She would have just assumed the patrons wanted space were she not carrying a certain bit of cargo in her pocket. 

The men at the other tables were atleast being discrete if their intentions were nefarious...
But the new comer... he blatantly stared at their table from across the small room.

Fletcher had barely registered Skippy's change in tone, and he hadn't noticed Nola patting his shoulder at all. "I'll go fetch you a bowl," she'd said. "Sure, sure," Fletch mumbled distractedly, now intently not looking at the strangers in the room. The prickling at the back of his neck had amplified and shot like lightning down his arms, and now alarm bells were ringing in his ears. He was now dead certain of it: Skippy had been followed. She was a target, and she'd drawn one on his back just for looking chummy with her. Oh, that part made him furious, no doubt about it. For being so sneaky and tight-lipped, she sure had a bloody blind spot. But he wasn't going to tip these people off by saying a damned thing. Not just yet. Not while he had a moment to strategize.

He shoved his hands casually in his pockets and turned slowly in place like he was taking in the charm of the inn. He hummed a shanty while he did it just to underscore to any observers that he was relaxed. At ease. The front door was blocked. That much he'd suspected. And the only other door to this room went through the kitchen. He turned again. A particularly menacing-looking man sat in the corner by a window. Speaking of subtlety, Fletch thought. This man had anything but. It wasn't a good sign. It meant that they felt confident in their numbers. He finished turning and nonchalantly made his way back over to Skippy, plopping down across the table from her and nodding towards her leg.

"Did he fix you up? Can you walk?" he asked, trying desperately to keep the strain out of his voice. He took a puff. He met her gaze. Had she caught his meaning? How to get the woman to understand? he thought. He flashed a momentary expression of alarm, made certain she'd seen it, then glanced rather obviously towards the kitchen. We should make an exit, he tried to say. Come on, Skippy. Figure it out. Can we leave that way? Yes or no?

Missendria paled at his concern. It was hard to keep the anxious fear out of her demeanor. 

"I've been walking on it the past hour. But I'm not sure we can out run these many men," She said, tone low as she leaned in closer to Fletch, to be more discrete. 

Shit. She wished she was allowed to know what was in the damn package. 

She peered at the kitchen from the corner of her eyes, Nola returning with two bowls of soup.

"Eat up loves. I need to help Ye'lard prepare the quail." It was then she took notice of the new comers and began to approach one of rhe tables, taking their orders for drink.

Fletch kept his eyes fixed on Skippy and held onto that same casual and collected expression. He rubbed at the stubble on his chin as he contemplated their next move. Or rather, his next move. She might not be able to run, but he could. He could cause a distraction and slip right out the door as they closed in on her. The question was, could he live with himself if he abandoned her to these thugs? And the answer was...no. For some confounding reason, he couldn't. Why do I give a flying fuck? He thought. His brow twitched again. He hated this. Whatever this was.

"Alright," he replied with a sigh. He made a show of admiring the decor again. Chandelier could drop, he thought. Chairs look sturdy, too. But it wasn't going to be enough. Not when all he had was one piddly little knife. "You any good in a brawl, love?" he asked Skippy. Then... "...is Big Man? Think you could go and get him? Even our odds?"

It was then she remembered Ye'lard but frowned and shook her head.
"This isn't his problem.. nor should it be yours.."
She contemplated their options as Nola disappeared back into the kitchen. If only they could have grabbed the woman earlier. Told Nola to warn Ye'lard.

"It'll be too suspicious if we go to the kitchen."

"Yeah, no shit," Fletch snorted. He kept his voice low and his grin up. "But we're past 'shoulds' and we're past the point of sneaking out of this. You've been followed. We're trapped. So are your friends, now. This ain't a matter of if, sweetheart, it's when. You want to make it out of this alive? We're going to have to set it up on our terms." He lifted his spoon and pushed a potato around in the bowl. The soup was piping hot like it had just come out of a kettle over a fire. He arched an eyebrow at it. He glanced back up at Skippy. His eyes sparkled.

"Alright," he chuckled. Oh, she'd fucking love this, wouldn't she? "Hit me. Slap me hard across the face. Start a fight. Tell me I've, I don't know...insulted your mum, or I've been going behind your back with some tramp. Stand up, get loud, but let me stay close to the table. It'll buy us a couple of seconds...and it'll warn your friends."

Missendria chewed over that.  Damn her contract. 

But then she was taken back by what he said. But things clicked quickly and-

Slap.

She may have hit him harder than was necessary, but she panicked and well..
He did say to slap hard.

She stood up in a huff.

"YOU GODS BE DAMNED BASTARD! I ought to ring you up by your ears!" She shouted, tapping into the years of frustrated energies towards her ex lover and.. it just all kind of came out.

"You sold me out! Sold me for your debts and own selfish ambitions! How dare you ask for a favor now! You're lucky I don't have you strung up like the beast of a pig you are!"

Well. She'd sold it. Maybe she'd sold it a little too hard, because now she'd smacked the fag out of his mouth and onto the floor. Fletch blinked the sparks away and gaped at her, dumbfounded. Now he was selling it, too. Right, he thought. Best get to it. "Really?" he cried in his best imitation of a lovers' quarrel. "We're going to do this here? Right now?" He found he didn't have to dig particularly deep for inspiration. As for why, well. No time for that now. Beneath the table, he fished his belt knife out and shoved it, blade exposed, into his coat pocket. He stood and knocked over his chair. He leaned over the table, hands strategically near the soup, and pulled some nonsense out of his arse. "Well maybe if you'd cared a little more from the beginning, I wouldn't have gotten so fucking desperate. But no, you didn't bloody well think of that, did you? It's always me, me, me, ey, sweetheart?"

It had worked. The other patrons now stood frozen in alarm, uncertain what to do — or whether they even had the right target. Now was his chance. Time for act two, he thought. He grabbed the bowl in front of him, winked at Skippy, spun, and lobbed it at the nearest one of them. The man cried out in surprise and stumbled backwards from the blinding impact. Fletch hooked a boot into one of the chair rungs and set it upright. He lifted it and brandished it like a weapon. "You want it? Huh? Well then let's fucking go, boys!" he shouted, and barreled towards the big one by the window. You owe me, Skippy, he thought.

Missendria gasped as the bowl of soup was launched at one man, then Fletch was charging the others, chair in hand. Before she could even think of what to do, Ye'lard came out of the kitchen holding a large cast iron with simmering quail. His other hand held a cooking knife.

Missendria could only think of one quick thing to say, "Those men are trying to hurt us!"

And instantly Ye'lard's demeanor changed from big burly happy cook to big burly dangerous man as he smashed his heavy cast iron pit clean over the nearest man's head.

Skippy wasn't fighting. It was just as well. That ankle wouldn't heal if she —

Why in the name of the regent's holy sack do I care? he thought absently as he smashed the chair over the man's head. He wasn't one for heroics. He didn't just go around saving women for fun. And he wasn't exactly getting anything out of this for himself. She obviously wasn't the type. Someone's puppet strings were tangled around his throat and they kept yanking him around. And holy fucking emperor, it was pissing him off. He gripped the broken chair leg like a club and sneered at his opponent, his teeth bared like an attack dog loosed. At least he had a target to take it out on. At least there was that.

The man staggered. He should have dropped from the impact. He didn't. Instead, he swung a vicious left hook. Shit. Fletch narrowly dodged the blow and felt fingers graze his ear. He stumbled backwards just as the knife cut yet another slice out of his battered coat. Better that than skin and guts, he thought. He swung the chair leg. He missed. Behind him, thumping footsteps and the resounding clang of iron on skull announced Ye'lard's arrival. "A little help here, Big Man?!" he yelled.

Somehow Ye'lard's heavy pan remained with sizzling quail, the man holding the heavy thing threateningly. He turned towards Fletch who called out for help, and and pointed a thick finger at his next opponent.

"I don't much care for violence in my establishment! Throw your own selves out or I'm about to get mad!" Ye'lard bellowed, taking a threatening step in the man's direction.

Instead of obliging, the man brandished a knife.

"Oh.. wrong choice my friend. That's going to be your last mistake." With expert finesse, Ye'lard swung back his pot holding hand before whipping it forward, not letting the handle go, as the sizzling quail and gravies went hurdling towards the man's head.

He managed to block, but the heat of rhe trailing gravy still managed to singe him as he swore... and the poor quail meat bounced across the table beside him, tumbling off to rest- meaty legs pointing up, as chaos continued to explode all around.

By this time, the first man Ye'lard knocked over was nursing his head, he had crowned him so hard it was a wonder how he wasn't unconscious. But by the time Ye'lard joined the other fight, 'soup face' was pissed and brandished his own knife, dark eyes cutting at Missendria.

Shit.

She took a few steps back, realizing she was unarmed and alone and was frantically thinking over her next move.

"Come on girly. Hand over the package before I slit your pretty little throat. "

Missendria bared her teeth.

"Why are all you type of men the same?" She snapped. "Thinking because I wear skirts I'm defensless."

He was likely not entirely wrong, Missendria was no trained warrior but..
She could improvise. And was not about to die over some 'package '.

So when the man inevitably charged, Missendria let out angered cries each time she grabbed something off the nearby table began throwing them at his head- forks, spoons, plates, mugs of ale- anything to keep soup face away with that damned large knife of his.

But he kept on coming!

Missendria eventually rushed to the opposing side of the table, trapped as she got her back to the damned wall. She couldn't go left or right, the man could just as easily followed, as he began to stalk her to the right, forcing her to move away from the direction of her companions and the chaos and flee to the backside of another round table, only putting her further away. But atleast this time she had more ammo, throwing more plates and a few half eaten potatoes at his head.

He only snickered.

"What you gonna do now, girly? Now.. hand over that package before I get creative with my knife. "

Missendria hated more than anything feeling trapped. She was already stuck to work for a damn crime Lord for things she hadn't personally owed.. and made the extra effort to be as inconspicuous with her jobs as possible.

What was in this damn package that she had been sniffed out?

She picked up a knife from the table and pointed it at the man.

"You'll have to get close enough to try it, first."

The man only laughed, and Missendria realized she was holding a damn fork.

Even with Ye'lard there, it quickly became clear that the odds weren't in their favor. What started in Fletcher's head as the sort of lively bar brawl of his youth had now shifted into a vicious fight for their lives. These trackers weren't scouts or petty thieves; they were experienced thugs. He jumped back to dodge yet another knife swing, only to be met again with the man's fist. This time, it connected squarely with his jaw — right where Skippy had walloped him. Fletch grunted and staggered back. The blow had loosened a tooth. He'd cut his lip. He spat the blood out, sniffed, and glowered at his opponent with a little more eye-bulging murder than before. "Ohohoho," he growled. "Now you're in for it, you great cunt — "

Clattering and crashing shattered his focus. "What you gonna do now, girly? Now...hand over that package before I get creative with my knife." One of the other two had cornered Skippy. And now, of course, he'd have to bail her out. Like he didn't have enough going on at the moment. You've got to be kidding me, Fletch thought as he danced and tripped to dodge more blows.

He shot a lightning glance at Ye'lard. The man seemed to have their fourth assailant under control. At least they had that much going for them. But he was just as busy as Fletcher was. She'd have to hold out just a little longer. Then he remembered it: the chandelier. The massive, heavy, wrought iron chandelier. It was a move out of some cheap, sensational novel. It was ridiculous. It was better than nothing. "Behind you, Skippy!" he bellowed, still keeping his eyes squarely on the man who was trying to gut him. "The rope! Drop it on his head."

He returned his focus to the fight and lobbed the splintered leg at his opponent, swapping it for the knife in his pocket. The man deflected the projectile with ease. Of course he did. Fletch backed up a little further and swung another chair up from the floor. Knife held firmly, chair legs pointing out, he charged. His voice was hoarse from the smoke and the war cries. His head spun from the vertigo again. He threw his weight square into the brute and felt his skull jostle from the impact as they slammed into the wall. Before the man could react, Fletcher went for the kill, reaching over the chair to shove his thumbs into eye sockets while his knee struck groin. His opponent flailed.

A blade passed through Fletcher's coat and into his side.

He roared, blinded by the overwhelming agony. But somehow, he could still breathe. By sheer luck, the knife must have glanced off of a rib. The man tried again. Too late. Enraged by this fresh assault on both his flesh and his clothing, Fletch swung and returned the favor directly into the thug's neck. "Fucking finally," he rasped, hand pressed to his wound as the brute slid to the floor, the bloodied chair creaking down the wall to land on top of his limp body. He wished he had time for a breather. Like she'd said, this wasn't even his fight. Didn't matter. He turned. Three more to go.

Missendria made a face, looking up at the chandelier then following the rope. It was close.. but so was the man, and he knew exactly what her aim was. 

Good thing Nola got him by surprise, beating him suddenly over the head with a broom.
Distracted, she was able to go for the rope, un hooking it from where it kept the chandelier anchored and called over to Nola 

"Push him to the table!" She shouted, but that was easier said than done and soon Nola was over powered by the thug and Missendria panicked.  "No.." she couldn't let Nola get killed on her behalf. 

So instead of dropping the rope to unleash the chandelier- she held onto it, stepped up onto the table then launched herself Bodily at the man before he could cut Nola- the man (and herself) went down in a heap. 

Big Man's old lady had gotten herself caught up in this mess, and now she lay prone on the floor. Fletcher froze at the sight. For the first time since he'd woken up that day, he felt...fear. Real, gut-wrenching fear like an icicle in the spine. His eyes watered. His breath froze halfway into his burning lungs. For one eternal second, she was someone else entirely. Someone with dark, frizzy hair and brown skin like his own. "Mum?" he whimpered.

In an instant, he snapped, and the fear flipped on its head. "NO!" he roared. He didn't care about the concussed thug who now struggled to get to his feet, or the one Ye'lard was still trying desperately to fend off with his frying pan. He didn't care about the fresh wound in his side that now stained his coat an even darker red. Fletcher charged, and in seconds he was on the floor next to Skippy and Nola, their attacker's soup-drenched head wedged in a headlock. He dragged the man out of the pile and turned him away from the women's view. He squeezed. The thug thrashed and clawed at his freshly-bandaged arm. Something about the pain snapped him back to the present, but he didn't dare let go.

"Fuck's sakes," he snapped over his shoulder, irate both at the cat scratches and at the old memories that had just been dredged up from the grave. "If you can't fight, go hide in the kitchen. Get out of here. GO." He ducked his head to the side as the concussed man chose that moment to take a swing at him. "NOT. TODAY," Fletch spat as he kicked him mercilessly in the shin. Sparks shone in his vision from the exertion. At last, he dropped an unconscious Soup-Face to the floor and scrambled to his feet. "Come on, you stubborn tit," he gasped. "It's just you and me."

Missendria barely held onto the rope as the chandelier swung precariously over head.  Her and Nola hung back, flinching as Fletch took care of soup face.

He barked at them to stay out of the way and Nola huffed, clutching her broom.

"No scoundrels cause a ruckus in my place and doesn't get what for!"

Missendria looked around at all the chaos inside the place and felt ill. And Fletcher was over there, clutching his side. A wound?

It seemed Ye'lard had taken care of any that opposed him, cast iron still in hand as the remaining man rushed towards the door.

"Oh like hell you're getting out!" The large man snatched up a chair and proceeded to launch the entire thing at his retreating form. The chair smashed into his legs and sent the man stumbling across the floor into a crumpled heap..

Right infront of Fletch. 

The last one had tried to run. It hadn't gone well for him. Fletch stared blankly at the unconscious figure on the floor, his fists still raised and at the ready. Was that all of them? He lowered his arms. He turned. Ye'lard had finally brained the other one by the window. Fletcher's own victim lay in the corner, staining the wood floor with far too much blood. The two men at his feet still seemed to be alive. Ye'lard would have to deal with them. There wouldn't be time for questions. There was barely time to breathe. But breathe he would. Breathe he fucking would.

He looked across the room at the cigarette that she'd smacked from his lips. It must have been ruined in the scuffle: ground up under someone's heel, tobacco scattered like sand. He stowed his bloodied knife, produced his matches and case, and lit a fresh one. His fingers began to tremble. He was shaking. His whole body was shaking. He couldn't make it stop. He turned back towards Skippy, deadly quiet like the calm before the storm. He gestured to her pocket with one hand and held the other to the wound on his side. The shiner on his face began to pulse with his erratic heartbeat.

"Is it worth it?" he asked, his voice low and hoarse. "Is what you've been hiding bloody worth it? Ey?"

He took another drag, amber eyes still locked on her. She blurred in and out of focus. His ears began to ring. He continued on, still just as silky and quiet as before.

"You were the target of an orchestrated attack, in broad daylight, in public. You know who hates broad daylight? Any crime org worth their salt, so whatever that thing is in your pocket? They're not going to stop at this to get it. Your friends here could have died. You could have died. I could have died. You are in way over your head, sweetheart. Now."

He took yet other drag.

"Since it's clear that you don't know what you're doing. Do you have a safehouse? Somewhere you can lay low? Because we need to move."

Nola took the rope for the chandelier ; Missendria didn't even know she was clutching.
She then proceeded to pale at Fletcher's words. She opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came out.

Because he was right. 

"This.. it.. was only supposed to be a simple drop off. " she shook her head. And safe house.. if anything.. Ye'lard and Nola's place would have been a safe house... if any place she knew could count as such. 

She sighed, realizing she had been shaking and holding her breath. She raked a hand through her hair, unable to focus because...

Somehow or another.. she had really screwed up. And if there's one thing she feared more than this type of insanity? It was crossing the man who was her boss.

"I don't know," She finally admitted, hating that she sounded on the verge of tears. "This .. these.. jobs were supposed to be easy.. off the radar I.."

Now what? Everything just exploded.

So. There it was. She'd finally come out with it, and now it all made perfect sense. Of course it did. Of course it bloody did, because he'd been right about it all. It was why he'd sniffed her out as cleaner than the work she did. It was why she knew her way around streets and people and knives and lies, but not a lowly brawl. And now, with her voice cracking from the shock of it all, Skippy told him everything he needed to know.

She was absolutely, undeniably in over her head.

Fletcher seethed silently as he processed what she'd told him, nose crinkled up from the stabbing pain in his side. He looked from her, to Nola, to Ye'lard, still puffing furiously at his latest cigarette. Was he the only one here who knew how to do this shit? And, yet again: why. Did. He. Care?

"Yep," he said finally as if to answer his first question. "Right. Okay." He squared his shoulders and grunted at the fresh wave of sparks that jolted his rib bone. "Fuck me. Agh. Okay. Big Man. Listen. I'm sorry for the mess, but she's in shock and I need to get her moving. There'll be more of them. The sooner we do this, the safer it'll be for everyone involved. If you want her to make it out of this, I need your help."

He groaned. Rolled a shoulder to loosen it. Took another drag. Looked between Ye'lard and his wife. "Do you have any, I don't know. Cloaks or coats or even blankets we can borrow? Anything so that we're not wearing the same shite we were when we came in. Please," he added, like it at all made up for the swearing. "And second. If you don't happen to know of a place in the city where we can lay low until nightfall: what's the fastest, quietest way out of town?"

Finally, he rounded on Skippy. "And third. You. You need. To dump. The package. I don't care whose it is. The bloke can't be more danger to you than what you're already bloody in."

Ye'lard and Nola exchanged looks before Nola stepped away.
"I'll go fetch some blankets." And she disappeared around the bend. Ye'lard, however, stood with large arms folded, looking between Fletcher and Missendria.

"I.. can't.. just .. give up the package," She finally managed to choke out. "Those men? The crazies in broad daylight? They've got nothing on the man I work for. If I lose whatever this special package is.. I .. why I'll be wishing these men had killed me!"

Ye'lard's expression only darkened.

"Missendria.. you can't mean you're involved with.. Opus Dey."

Missendria cut Ye'lard a look before she grimaced.

"Let's just say I thought I was doing the right thing," She muttered, still shaking as Nola returned with a handful of blankets.

"I can't say I know where you ought to go," Ye'lard said, grunting over a thought and shaking his head. "The sewers.. maybe but.."
His expression looked grim. "It's not like you can access that here."

Nola gasped. "You can't send a lady down there, Ye'lard! Think of the rats and things!"

Missendria laughed, an awful noise that drew their attention.

"I can't go anywhere," She said, shaking her head, still trembling. "The.. package needs to be dropped off within the hour.  Then.. hopefully, it won't be my problem anymore."

"Opus what?"

Fletcher racked his brain, but he'd never heard the words before in his life. It sounded exactly like the mysterious, menacing load of bollocks a criminal organization would call themselves, though. He shook his head, his expression still hardened and unforgiving, and ran a hand over his hair. No matter which way they went, they'd be at risk. Unless...

He coughed. Tasted blood again. Was it just his cut lip? He supposed it didn't matter right now. "So, then...we do the opposite of what they want," he rasped, glancing between the three of them again. "We stay in broad daylight. We take the busiest streets. Move from city guard to city guard. And we look as vulnerable and innocent as we bloody well can." His gaze landed on Skippy. "I don't know this city, so you tell me: is there a route like that to where you're headed? Because if so..."

He sighed, chuckled in the way an exhausted man would, and rubbed at his bloodshot eyes. Can't believe I'm saying this, he thought. "...then we need a bowl. To put under your dress. Because nobody in their right mind lets a pregnant woman and her kind, helpful husband get attacked in public."

She felt ridiculous. Had she not been so numbed to the events that transpired, she may have protested more, probably would have even given up the idea pretending she was an old woman would have made more sense.. due to her wobble however...

Here they were, stepping outside of the inn and Missendria was swearing under her breath.

"I can't believe I'm doing this," She huffed, arm looped with Fletcher's as she gave him a flat stare. She adjusted the blanket, a make shift cloak, over her form and tried not to look too suspicious but.. she swore she still felt eyes upon her.

"I feel if they kill me now, I'd die with less dignity."

Fletch returned the stare with an equally unforgiving one. He was already livid after the fight. And now, he couldn't believe what he'd just heard come out of her mouth. "That's interesting," he snarled. "Real interesting. Hell of a way to say, 'Thank you, Dev, for still being decent enough to save my sorry arse after what I've put you through.' You're a piece of work, you know that?" He returned his attention to the street ahead and clenched his jaw against the rage, the pain, and the all-consuming urge to give her a bigger piece of his mind. The shiner he'd received had begun to swell. He'd tried to clean himself up as best as he could before they left, but he was sure he'd still attract attention.

"How much further?"

She shot him a look.

"Of course I appreciate the help!" She snapped. "I didn't ask for it, and I already feel sick you, Nola and Ye'lard got roped into this."

She sighed, turning away from him to the road ahead.

'But your help is more than appreciated. " she sighed as they continued down the way.

"This is.... Just the first time what I do affected anyone else other than myself. I .. don't like it. This is supposed to be only my problem. I got myself into the contract. Only my name is on it."

She sighed.

"I honestly don't know what I'm doing but obviously someone found out what I'm doing and wants . Whatever it is I have for themselves.  I just want to drop it off and be done with it."

She sighed again, looking away, frowning. 

"I am sorry.. for what it's worth." Then she gave a small laugh. "Hell of a way to get Welcomed into Serendipity. "

The second he started to feel bad for her, Fletcher reined it in. Nope. No, no, no, he thought. He refused. He absolutely refused to care. It wasn't his business why some short-sighted, naïve little girl had gotten herself not only mixed up in gang affairs, but had apparently signed her name on a bloody contract of theirs. Stupid, he thought bitterly. Unbelievably stupid. He kept his eyes on the street and stared down anyone who so much as looked at them funny.

"Yeah, well," he muttered. "'Sorry' won't get you or I out of this alive, will it? Now come on. You didn't answer the question. How much further?"

She cut him a sour look, then glanced away. She hated how awkward this was- needing to be arm and arm with a man criticizing her. And he was right, too. She frowned and glanced up at the roads before them.

"I don't know how much I should say outloud," she told him, honestly. She peered around. How may of those looking their way were out to get them? She adjusted her shawl, bringing it in closer but trying not to hide her 'pregnancy bowl' so that it looked as obvious as it could.

But she kept looking towards a tower that began to loom on the horizon- some belltower of a tall and impressive church....

She gave a look towards Fletcher, subtle, while glancing back in it's direction then down again, trying to remain shuffling and indistinct. 

"Well unless every stranger is leaning in for a kiss, I don't think they'll — "

Fletch shut up and followed her gaze to the tower. "Oh. Wonderful." He thought back to the last time he'd been in a similar building. He thought about the narrow spiral steps that could barely fit two men shoulder to shoulder. He thought about the exertion of climbing up and up and up, and how at the top, they'd have no fight left in them at all. He thought about how easy it would be to get boxed in on those stairs. How someone could pour oil down them and set it alight, or shove them out a window to their deaths.

"I hope you don't mean the top. That's not a dead drop...that's a trap, love."

Missendria shot him a look.
"Not the top," she hissed, looking around and paranoidedly drawing her make shift shawl closer. "I have to get to the basement."

"Oh, aye, that's much better." Fletcher sighed. "Alright. Come on. Let's get this done."

He sped up without a second thought to how her ankle was doing. Truthfully, he was biting back a lot more than he'd chewed her out with, and at this point, he just wanted it to be over with. They'd do the drop, they'd go their separate ways, and he'd find someone with a bit more common sense to help him out. Her lack of street smarts still very much made him livid. Had he put so many people in danger, the least he'd have gotten was his ears cuffed. He wondered if she would have even realized the extent of what she'd caused had he not given her a talking to. Probably not, he thought.

Fletch festered and stewed in his own thoughts, and before he knew it they'd reached the base of the bell tower. There was only one door: a shabby one on the side, well away from the grand ones that marked the front of the church. He glanced about them once more, but the side street here was uncannily quiet. Come to think of it, he hadn't seen anyone following them up there. Not in any obvious way, anyways. The hairs on the back of his neck prickled. Something was wrong about all of it. This had been too easy.

He unwound his arm from hers and set his hands on his hips. "This is a trap," he repeated. Try as he might, his worry bled through. "We still doing this?"

Missendria looked nervously to the skies. Was it time to make the drop? She hoped so. The sun seemed in the right place, but her mind was too frazzled for her to feel certain. 

Things had too easily gotten out of hand. And she still worried about Ye'lard and Nola.

She cut a look at Fletcher.

"Yes, we're still doing this " her words came out more snappish than she'd like. "Once it's out of my hands we won't be a target "

She drew in a long breath before nodding.
"You don't need to stick around. Only I need to make the drop off.  " it was her contract, after all.

He knew she was right. Hell, he even agreed with her: it wasn't his problem. He should wipe his hands clean from this crap. But he couldn't. He wasn't allowed. He was stuck here, protecting her, like a fly trapped on tarred paper. So he ignored what Skippy said, drew his belt knife, and breathed deep. "Let's get this over with," he growled. "I'd say ladies first, but — maybe not this time, ey?"

He pushed open the door. Stepped in. Closed it behind Skippy after she'd entered. It was eerily quiet. Dark, too. He wondered how they'd find the basement. He dug around in his pocket and made to light a match —

WHACK.

A blinding pain across the back of his head. Sparks flashed in his eyes for one split second, and then — nothing. Blissful nothing.



It was dark. It was cold. He was sore all over in places he hadn't ached in forever. His skull screamed at him like the world's worst hangover. His cheek was wet for some bloody reason. He groaned, shivered, and tried to pull the blanket tighter around his shoulders. Why was it so damned freezing? Where in the hell was he?

Fletch opened his eyes, for all the good that did him. He could barely see two feet in front of him, and anything he could make out was washed over in that faint silver blue of night. But from what he could see — and hear — and smell, for that matter — he wasn't in the city anymore. Far from it. The more he let his eyes adjust, the more he realized that he'd somehow, inexplicably, found himself in the middle of nowhere.

"Great," he muttered, and his head punished him for exerting himself even that much. "Unnghh. Fuck..." He rubbed his face and winced at all the bruises. He wondered if he'd been dragged out here and dumped alone, or if...

"Skippy?" he rasped. "You still there?"

She wouldn't reply. She couldn't reply. Missendria lay in a pool of her own blood- her body so terribly beaten that if it weren't for her wild, blonde hair spilling around her form, it could have been anyone else.

She didn't move. She didn't stir. She looked like the damn dead, with sunken, bruised eyes and cuts all over. Even one of her arms looked .. wrong.

And she.. her skin so ashen she nearly looked..

Dead? 

Except she unfortunately wasn't, as she lay there, breathing shallow and rough and soft.

She didn't answer. Maybe she wasn't even there. For some reason, the thought of being alone out here scared him more than being stuck with her. He crawled around in the grass, one hand extended out in front of him as dew soaked through his trouser knees. "Damn it all," he spat. Then, just in front of him, he spotted it: a cloud of silver and gold in the night.

"Skippy?" he coughed.

Nothing.

"Skippy! Hey!"

Still nothing. He crawled closer and patted her roughly on the cheek. "Skippy, wake u—" But she was cold. Her breaths were rough and raspy like a death rattle. And the more his eyes adjusted, the more he couldn't deny the blood that pooled around her body. Too much blood. His heart dropped.

"Shit. No, no, no, not again. Don't you fucking die on me. Don't you..."

Again? What was he talking about? He'd never met this woman before today. Well, yesterday, now. Fletch shook himself mentally and the image of the other blonde abruptly faded. He looked Skippy over again, and as he did, another familiar voice came to him, all harsh gravel and reason. He'd heard it yesterday. It was the one from his dreams. Find the worst of it, Mr. Fletcher, and stop the bleeding. Hurry.

"Okay. Okay, okay. Erm — " He paused, winced, and let out a long, shuddering sigh. He knew what he had to do, and neither of them were going to like it. "It's not what it looks like, alright? Promise. I'm not going to hurt you. You can slap me as hard as you like when you're better. I'm sure you'd love that," he added. Why am I talking to her? He thought. She's fucking unconscious. He began to pat along her legs, seeking the warmest blood. The wounds on her calves seemed cool and shallow. Past her knees, though...

He laughed, but it sounded like a sob. "Great. Lovely." Whomever had gone after Skippy like this had done it in a fit of rage. These wounds weren't precise in the least. Still, by chance, one of them had gotten awfully close to an artery in her thigh, and it was still leaking fresh blood. Okay. He'd have to patch it up, and quickly. He continued to pat her, faster now, searching for any more heavy bleeders. "Promise I'm just looking," he muttered, half to her and half to himself. "You're alright. Erm. Okay. Unless there's a bad one on your back, I think the leg's the worst of it. I'm going to stop the bleeding. Please don't wake up and kick me in the face until I'm done, yeah? You can do it after. Okay. Right."

Fletch swallowed audibly. He was stalling, and he couldn't afford to. "Right," he said again, and got down to business. He tore the blanket over his head and tucked it over her chest and around her arms. Then went his coat, which he kept for himself. Lastly, he pulled his ruined shirt, torn to shreds and stained with his own dry blood, off of his shoulders. He winced as his skin pulled taut over a million cuts and bruises. He shivered. Then he tugged the coat back on, buttoned it up, rolled up the sleeves, and got to work.

"I'm sorry," he muttered as he moved her skirts carefully out of the way. "I'm not being a lech. I swear." He pressed his bunched up shirt firmly to the wound and held it there to stanch the bleeding. With his other hand, he felt beneath her back. The cuts seemed to stop beneath her arms, like she'd only been attacked from the front. But there was so much blood soaked into the grass that if she did have another bleeder, he wouldn't know it by feel alone. Sooner or later, he'd have to flip her over and check.

"You don't make it easy for me, do you, Skippy?" Fletcher grumbled. He sighed, shivered again, and stared off into the black, waiting for the bleeding to stop. It was going to be a long night.

After some time, the woman finally made some semblance of motion- a noise.. a groan of breath. She was too weak to open her eyes at first, but the immense pain and shock to her body weighed her down, making it impossible to see.. to speak...

But after a time... she groaned, the sound throaty and raspy and her body began to tremble- both from the cold, and from the pain. She was barely able to open her eyes, one was crusted shut by layers of dried blood...

But everything was so dark.. she felt dizzy.. and it was hard to focus on anything around her.

Skippy began to writhe and shudder. "Nonono," Fletch whispered. "You stay sleeping, princess." He lifted his bunched up shirt and felt the wound. The bleeding seemed to have slowed enough. He breathed a sigh of relief. "Right," he said, and reached into his pocket to produce the ointment that Nola had given him for his cat scratches. He could have almost laughed at the thought of it. At the beginning of that day, the worst thing that had happened to him was a stray cat. Now...

Fletch dressed the wound, first with the ointment, then with strips of shirt, and finally, reluctantly, he tore a sleeve off of the thing and tied it securely around her leg to hold the bandage together. His fingers shook, either from the cold, or the pain, or, maybe, from not having a decent drink in who knew how long. He coughed into the crook of his elbow and sniffled. He sighed. It wasn't that she'd be tough to flip over. It was that she'd scream something fierce if he did it. He hesitated. Then, much as he didn't want to, he pulled his coat back off and laid it on the grass. His skin prickled. His teeth chattered. He hated this. It was best to get it over with.

"Alright, love. Here comes the hard part." He slid his hands under her back and shoved her over to lay, belly down, on his coat. He began, as gently as he could with rough sailor's hands in the dark, to check along her shoulders for wounds.

In the confusion, a familiar voice cut through the cold. Who..? How ..??

She couldn't remember much at the moment but as her eyes began to focus she noticed him abd it took some time for her to register...

"Fletch?" She barely managed to croak out his name.  Kia's name.. everything hurt.  She closed her eye, shivering.

He was speaking but they just became words. She had nearly slipped back off into unconsciousness when suddenly- she was flipped onto her belly and her screams of pain were muffled into his coat.

Her entire backside had been lashed open with wounds that, has been starting to crust over and heal.. that was until the movement of her body tore them back open- as some of the blood had glued her wounds to the stone street.

She trembled, shaking terribly, tears streaming uncontrollably from her eyes as she suddenly lost the ability to scream any further, back glistening with fresh blood from raw wounds.

"Yeah, not Prince Charming, sorry love," Fletch replied as her voice went hoarse and then cut out altogether. For a second he'd hoped she'd passed out again, but no. By how she shook with silent sobs, he knew she was still awake. She trembled from the cold, too, and he realized he'd flipped the blanket over with her. He paused, wrestling with his own guilt. He really, really wanted to keep his coat for himself. Well. It was already ruined from the scratches and the blood. What was one more stain? But he'd still take it back from her when he was done here. She already got his fucking blanket. She wasn't going to manipulate him out of his coat, too. Grumbling beneath his breath, he unbuttoned it again, tore it off, and tucked it around her, leaving her back and shoulders exposed. "Don't you go and get used to this chivalry bollocks," he growled. Being this cold was really making him cranky.

He began to work his hands across her. He winced as his fingers slipped through fresh, warm blood. Flipping her might have actually caused more harm than good. Where's a bloody medic when you need one? he thought. He knew, more or less, how to patch up his fellow sailors when the inevitable cuts and bruises and splinters happened. Hell, any sailor worth his salt should. But this...? This was out of his depths. And the both of them knew it.

There was nothing for it but to try, though. So try he did. There were two bleeders back here that he could tell. One was on her shoulder, and he slowed it down well enough by applying pressure with his crumpled up shirt, then bandaged it up like the wound on her leg. The other one, though...the knife had gone through her corset. He screwed up his face while he tried to remember what a man's insides looked like. If Skippy was lucky, the blade had missed her kidney. If she wasn't...well. Then he was way out of his depths. "I think we need to cauterize this one," he told her as he felt along the slit through the fabric. "In the meantime..." He retrieved his coat, swung it around his bare shoulders, held the shirt to the wound, and rolled her back over on top of it with a laborious grunt. She'd create her own pressure, he figured. Keep it from leaking too much more.

Fletcher stood and donned his coat again. He looked down at her pale silhouette. He was, quite frankly, fucking exhausted. Every fiber of him burned and ached and throbbed from the beatings he'd endured. He hated this. He didn't want to have to take care of some woman on top of it all. Hell, he'd still be livid at her if he had so much as a drop of energy left. But he'd be good anyways. He'd keep her alive, if only so he could throttle her for all of this later. "I'm making us a fire," he told her. "Don't go anywhere, yeah?"

He came back a short time later and dumped an armful of dry grass and twigs a few feet away. Something about all this felt awfully familiar: the cold, the pain...surviving out under the stars. It nagged at him. In his mind's eye he could see it: pale hands stacking kindling and starting a fire, night after night, until he caught on. Someone had taught him how to do this, and recently.

Fletcher struck a match. Within minutes, he had the fire going, and his knife point stuck under it to heat up. "Least we can keep warm for now," he muttered. "At least there's that."

Missendria was going in and out of consciousness as Fletcher worked. By the time he returned, she was awaken again, groaning anytime she moved. But she was able to move in such a way that she could watch him, the kindling flames dancing in the subtle glow of her eyes.

She merely watched him, saying nothing as she trembled.

Then she finally croaked, "Thank you." As she closed her eyes, a few tears running down her cheeks.

He almost didn't hear her over the crackling fire. Did Skippy just thank him? Well...good. It was the least she should be doing. Hell, she'd be dead if he hadn't come along. Fletcher glowered over at her, his expression obscured in shadow. There was a sparkle on her cheek. Wait a moment. Was she...crying? He shook his head and sighed. Women, he thought. He couldn't imagine crying at a time like this. It was stupid. Pointless. "Yeah," he grunted. "You're welcome." He nudged the knife a little deeper into the newly formed coals. It was almost ready. "You may want to hold off on thanking me, though," he added. "This last one's going to hurt like a sonofawhore."

He crawled back over to where she lay. "Gotta flip you back over now. You ready, cupcake?"

She lay there a moment, quiet, tears still streaming gently down her cheeks before she opened her eyes again and looked at him.

"Will it hurt?" She asked, trying to jest but her voice came out all croaky. But she only nodded at him and tried to move, whimpering as she did so, as any movement hurt like hell, and she almost found herself laughing at the idea she could hurt anymore.

Fletch stared down at her like she was crazy. Well, she was crazy, but...

He snorted. "Huh. You can't be dying that hard if you're cracking jokes." Still, he didn't think he could deal with it if she started screaming. She was probably a shrill screamer, and his head hurt too much to tolerate that kind of shite right now. Fletcher sighed. He groaned and looked up at the sky like it was the sky's fault he was in this situation. He wanted this to be over with. He got to work on his belt buckle.

"Not what it looks like," he mumbled for the fiftieth time that night. He laughed under his breath and shivered again. "You know...this is — the least — amount of fun — I've ever had — taking my clothes off — for a woman. There." Finally, the belt came free. He held his trousers up with one hand. With the other, he waggled the belt near Skippy's face. "You're going to want to bite down on this, love. Take it."

He let go of his belt loop and slid his hands beneath her back again. "Right. Ready? One, two — "

On three, he rolled her over, wincing in anticipation of the horrible noise he was sure she'd make. At least she'd probably be loud enough to scare off anything lurking in the shadows. He shuddered at the thought of what might be out there watching them. Truthfully, he hated the countryside. Surviving in the woods and sleeping under the stars always made him feel dirty and cranky. Why anyone would camp on purpose when they had a nice, soft bed to go back to was beyond him.

Fletch felt along the back of the corset until he found what he was looking for, then pulled. "Fucking hell, woman. Why's this thing tied so bloody tight?" But he managed to loosen it anyways, and pulled it down just enough to feel the wound. His hand slipped over fresh, warm blood. "Shit," he grunted, his panic rising again. He hadn't considered that the corset was keeping the injury shut. He had to move fast. "Going to cauterize now," he told her, his raspy, hurried tone betraying his fear. "Bite down hard." He leaned over, grabbed the knife, pulled the corset out of the way, held his breath, and pressed the blade into the wound.

The nasty smell of it hit his nostrils. He coughed and tasted his own blood. He ignored it. He had to focus and finish this up. Hastily, he smeared on a thick layer of Nola's ointment, pressed the last of his shirt scraps over the wound, pulled her corset back up over it, and tugged the thing tight again — though not as tight as it had been before. He wasn't here to torture her, after all. "All done," he told her. Suddenly, he was fucking exhausted. He was certainly too tired to baby her through this anymore. Without a warning, he rolled Skippy onto her side so she faced the fire, retrieved his belt, and adjusted the blanket. Then he sat down a little ways away with a grunt.

Finally, it was over. Fletcher rifled through his pocket, produced yet another cigarette, and lit it in the fire. He sat there in silence for a long time, smoking and ruminating, the light of the flames casting stark shadows across his battered face. "So," he said at last, still staring blankly at the white-hot coals. "How're you going to get back at them?"

The pain was incredible. But she endured. Somehow.. she always endured. At times she prayed she might not, so during times like these.. well.. so it would guarantee there'd never be any more times like these. 

Her face was wet with tears, her throat- raw from screaming. But the leather helped. At least she didn't crack her teeth or bite off her tongue at the pain.

But she let Fletcher work.. fuss.. her mind numb, ears ringing, mind muffled. She barely cracked a ghost of a smile at his jest.

But at his words...

There was only silence to reply.  Her violet eyes grew distant and lost into the chirping coals- she thankfuk for the warmth but she had no energy for anything else. And then she began to shiver.

She didn't respond. She just stared at the fire. Women, he thought again. Fletcher watched her for a little while longer, his battered and swollen face made a monstrosity by the deep shadows of the night. He thought about what he'd do in her place. What justice would look like. But then, he was just as much the victim as she was, here. So maybe he'd do what he wanted no matter what. And what he wanted was to deal the same pain back to the sons of whores who'd attacked them.

In time, he finished his fag and tossed it in the fire. He coughed. Tasted blood. Shivered at the cold. It snapped him out of his murderous ruminations, and he saw that she was shivering, too. It made him irate to see her like that. Hadn't he done enough? "Fucking hell, you have my blanket and everything," he grumbled. "The fuck more could you need?" Then he trembled again, and watched his breath hit the air like smoke, and it dawned on him. He rolled his eyes. "Fuck me," he muttered. "This isn't some bloody women's novel." But he did it anyways: scooted over to where she lay and flopped down with his back against hers. It was colder over here. Her body blocked the heat of the fire. But he'd survive. He'd...

He drifted off to sleep.

In the morning, when he'd awake- she had hoped.. no prayed to be well enough to vanish. But the little sleep she had acquired only made her feel ten times worse that morning.

She honestly felt like she'd been run over by an ox. And more than once.

How am I still alive?

The thoughts stirred around inside her head like little gnats. Then she peered over at him, sleeping- somewhat uncomfortably, with his back pressed to hers. They must have remained close for warmth.

She shivered, now from the cold and not just the pain. These damn autumn evenings were the worst. There was a time she used to be enchanted by the fall time and it's radiant, blazing colors of the trees.

Now? Now everything was an irritation. She sniffles, brushing away tears frustratingly. She didn't need to get emotional again. What she needed was help,.. or a way out. Anything. This mission.. she had failed.  She grimaced, considering her boss who had zero tolerance for failure.

She'd likely be dead by weeks end. So she either had to figure out who these men were that stole the item... or.. find out what the item even was. She was instructed not to look at it.

If Only.. if only she could just drop off any package at the location...

Stupid fool that she was. She should have seen it, not ignored it but made a swap of the item BEFORE this even happened. So that way she'd have the real items stowed away safely... someplace else...


But it was far too late for that.

For now, she supposed She should be thankful she was alive. Her dark eyes observed her companion. She was only alive because of him.

He looked to be on pain.. and was noticeably shivering.  Sighing, she relinquished his jacket she had been wearing and draped it over his form. The morning air hit her and she winced at it. It was so damn cold. It'd likely be too damn hot later but now.. she tried to focus on the chill. It atleast was a distraction from the pain her entire body was experiencing. 

Sighing, she attempted to stand- each movement reminded her the weight of the pain that weighed her down. She barely got to her knees before she had to stop- rest.. and tried again.

The sun had began to rise, offering a small ray of warmth along with its yellow light. By then she had finally managed to stand, and took perch against a tree.

It took far to long for her to even stand up. How was she to even consider walking? But.. atleast she was able to do that. It meant her legs weren't broken- she wasn't sure that negligence was a mercy or something to add to her torture. The men should have finished the job.. they should have...

No.. she couldn't think that way. Wouldn't think that way. She had survived this long, hadn't she?

And Missendria wasn't dead yet.

Someone draped a blanket over him. He curled tighter into a ball. He was miserable. His cheeks were numb, it was freezing, and the bed was hard and lumpy, too, for whatever godforsaken reason. "Lyssy, close the damned window," he muttered. But instead of footsteps on wood, he heard gravel. A woman labored as she moved somewhere nearby. Oh. Right. Fuck. His eyes snapped open. It was finally morning.

Fletcher wedged his elbow and propped himself up. If he'd thought everything hurt last night, it was nothing compared to now. His whole body throbbed with cuts and bruises. Even just moving was an act of labor. He was famished, too. Finally, he managed to rise to his feet and stumble forward. He caught his coat as it fell off of him and donned it gingerly, buttoning it over the scraps that remained of his ruined shirt. Skippy leaned against a tree a short ways off. He limped towards her, wincing and swearing beneath his breath.

"Looks to me you're alive," he grunted at her as he approached. "You're welcome for that." He squinted in the sunlight, and his skin pulled shiny and taut over the bruises on his cheeks. "I need to, er, see a man about a horse. Don't go anywhere. It's time we have a little chat, you and I."

Fletch hobbled off into the bushes without waiting for her response. He stood there, staring out into the woods, listening to his stomach growl, and he thought about it all. He thought of everything this woman had dragged him through, and all of the terrible decisions she'd made. He began to fume as he did his business. By the time he'd buttoned up and headed back, he was awake and he was livid. He stopped a few feet away from her, set his hands on his hips, and glared daggers. He pointed an accusatory finger as he dressed her down.

"Right," he growled. "Now. I'm well done with being kept in the dark. And with being one step behind these goons. So you're going to tell me, from the top, who these men are and what in the bloody hell is happening here."

Missendria considered running off- but it was a reflexive thought. She knew she wasn't going much of anywhere. 

Why were the pair alive? It was strange but perhaps the men would rather have her boss, the infamous Opus Dey, seal her fate. Ot they left her alive as a symbol.

When Fletcher returned, she could all but feel his anger, his irritation as he demanded truths of her. Did it matter now what she'd say? She supposed she owed him atleast the truth. 

So she stared at his finger, then up his ripped shirt ro his bruising neck and face. He might have duel shiners. And she she noted his state of wounds, she began to feel the sensations of her own.

Her face was swollen, movement reopened some fresh cuts that began to trickle blood- and were sharp reminders she was freshly healing. 
And despite it all, she... found herself smile.

It was a weak but genuinely freeing feeling to just.. accept to share the weight of.. well, all this, was someone else. 

"Well.. if it wasn't obvious- I've made mistakes."
The smile grew bitter but she kept her eyes on his, eyes growing glossy.

"They say a man can do foolish things when they're in love.. well.."
She shrugged- the very act itself was painful. "I was in love... and my jackass of a lover made some very terrible mistakes."

Skippy smiled. Fletcher scoffed. Really? Was she really smiling at a time like this? Had their attackers knocked a few more screws loose in her pretty little head? Unbelievable.

"Oh, mistakes, huh?" he snapped. "Is that what we're calling 'em? Like you've gone and done some little oopsie daisy? A mistake is when you forget your purse at home. We are beyond mistakes, sweetheart!" With every word he drummed up his own self-righteous rage, until by the end of it his voice rose sharply and he found himself yelling at her.

But Skippy kept going, and truthfully, he couldn't believe a damned thing he heard from her. He stopped, still heaving steam like a bull in the cold morning, finger raised and eyes bulging. "What?" he breathed. And then, to his own surprise, he started to laugh. It was the laugh a crazy man might make while he was dragged off to the dungeons. "You what?"

He rubbed his face with his palms, leaned back, and ran his hands over his hair in utter disbelief. He looked up at the sky. He breathed the crisp air. He took a little moment for himself. You know, to fully process what Skippy had just told him. He looked back down at her, hands clasped behind his neck, still smiling that smile: the one that was a warning.

"So," Fletch said, cool and conversational as you please. "Let me see if I've got this straight. Just, you know, putting the pieces together, love. You went — and shagged a man — who heads a gang, and then jilted him, and then went on about your business like it wouldn't catch up with you? Am I — am I hearing this right?" He scoffed again and muttered to himself. "Un-fucking-believable."

He dropped his hands to his sides again and faced her. "You," he growled, "owe me. You owe me. I have almost died trying to save your sorry arse from your own 'mistakes'. So what are you going to do about it? Ey? Just stand there and smile like some sniveling little tart until they catch up to you again? Until — "

He felt a catch in his throat and hacked violently into his sleeve. More blood. "Fuck," he muttered. He didn't have time for it right now. He spat it out to his side and kept on going like it hadn't happened. "Well?" he pressed her. "We need a plan. We at least need somewhere to hole up until these fucking wounds heal. So what'll it be?"

Missendria winced at his words.  And then she was shocked by what he deduced and her pitiable smile vanished. Anger flared within her eyes as she turned on Fletcher, baring teeth.

"I did not do something so foolish as you deduced! It was stupid, but the man I thought I loved chose to get mixed in with a world renowned crime Lord.  One of the most feared men this side of the world! And if I hadn't stepped in.. they would have chopped off his head! Instead I.. I.." she choked on her anger, eyes welling into blinding tears.

"I just thought he loved me.." Her voiced cracked, she turned away, choking back her sobs.

"My life a slave so he could live..."

She was a fool.


"This.. job... was just one of many I have to do to repay my ex lovers debt... while he.. he's gone off with another woman."


She drew in a quivering breath and wiped angrily at her tears.

"And so this is just my everyday life."

She kept her face away from him, embarrassed at how much she was crying. 

She had never told a soul. Now.. well..

He deserved to know.

With Skippy's every whimper and sniffle, his expression hardened even further. He didn't know why he expected a woman to have a decent plan. He put his hands on his hips again and cocked his head while she went on about being in love. About being in a crock of shite that she very well lifted her skirts and hopped into herself.

"Oh, boo fucking hoo," he cried. "Really? And, what, you're just going to waste my time feeling sorry for yourself over it? Get over yourself. Love isn't real, cupcake. Sounds like your man knew it well as I do. Meanwhile, while you stand here blubbering and being useless, I'm caught with my trousers down in the middle of a bloody gang squabble. Are you seriously just going to cry about it instead of finding us a way out of this?"

She couldn't believe  the audacity of this man.  The fire in her eyes were almost incinerators as she clenched her hands into fists.

"You asked me for my story!" She all but shrieked out. "Then you.. you.. you dared to take my words and interpret them at your own bloody will then act like my reaction to my owned pained past isn't warranted here!?"

Oh she had had enough. She was pissed and, despite the pain the fell on each step she took- she simply limped in a storm away from that God's forsaken chimney breathed man!

"I asked you to explain why in the hell we were attacked!" Fletcher shot back. "Not piss on about a man. I don't have time for this feelings shite. Not when both of our lives are in danger. OI! Get back here!" Mid-sentence, Skippy turned away from him and took off into the woods. "Errrghhh!" Fletcher growled. His face grew hot. She was really trying his fucking patience now. "Where do you think you're going?" he cried as he stomped after her. "You just going to run away from your problems, then, with half my bloody shirt on you, and cuts all over, and a bum leg? In the MIDDLE OF NOWHERE?" He caught up to her and grabbed her roughly by the shoulder. "Do you have a fucking death wish, woman? What is wrong with you?!"

And as she was forced to turn, she slapped him hard across the face.  Her entire complexion was red. Her eyes were swelled with tears and her entire being shook with such ferocity. And she tried to yank her damn arm away.

"Agh!" The smack fell right over his shiner. On pure instinct, Fletcher dug his fingers tighter into her shoulder and raised his hand to strike back. He stopped. What was he doing? He kept it there, held up in the air, like he'd frozen into a statue. Then, with a slow, shuddering exhale, he began to deflate. He lowered his arm to hang limp at his side. He loosened his grip on her. His face fell, too, and for one infinitesimal moment, guilt weighed on his features. "Look," he said, and he was calm again. "I'm sorry. Alright? I am. But you can't be running off in this state. We're stuck in this together, now, whether either of us likes it or not. So help me come up with a damned plan so we can fix it. Yeah? Don't just...fucking...abandon me to this."

He may have deflated, but she was wound up tight. The second he loosened his grip she yanked herself free,spilling into a nearby tree and barely catching herself.

Pain surged up her leg, causing a bubbling scream to erupt from her throat. But it only added to her rising anger as she tried to walk away, stumbling from tree to tree before her leg gave out and she dropped in a sharp cry.

Skippy yanked free, and this time he let her go. She got all of a few yards before collapsing into the grass. Fletcher sighed and rubbed at his forehead. Of course she was hysterical. Of course. Why would he be able to have a single straightforward conversation with this woman? He let her writhe there for a second. "Yeah, alright," he murmured. "Just get it out of your system. Fuck's sake. Okay, time's up."

He approached her, knelt, and wedged his arms underneath her. "Come on," he grunted. "You aren't going anywhere like this. Let's get you back to camp." He tried to lift her. He only succeeded in wheezing and straining. "Did you eat a cannonball?" he grumbled. "Alright. Get up. You can lean on me like before. At least help me out, here."

Missendria only humored him- but in truth, she'd rather cry it off alone. Men were God awful creatures thar only led to pain. It would be easier to just disappear out here.

"You... you really shouldn't stay by my side," She said, after finally helping him getting her to rise.  She had to lean into him. He smelled of cigarettes and musk, sweat and blood.

She needed that. That warmth. That closeness .

And it would lead her to losing her head. 

"The men who did this .. They're not who I fear.  I.. failed and I .. once my boss gets wind of this.... " she closed her eyes. "You need to leave the city. Dissociate yourself from me before my boss makes any connection. We.... There's no way to fix this. We're.. I'm..." she choked. "Fucked."

Slowly, laboriously, Fletch helped her back to the pile of ashes that marked their camp. He leaned her back against the tree where he'd yelled at her, then, head hung and rubbing his stubbled chin, he found his own spot a few steps away. He plopped down and let loose another sigh. He regarded her as he scratched at his jaw. "Yeah. See. I appreciate the whole, 'save yourself, I'm doomed' angle. Really, I do. But, fact is, if your boss is as sharp as you say, then he's already made that association. His boys followed the two of us. Hell, they beat me right next to you. I've been associating with you in broad daylight for the better part of a day. So it's a bit late for that, innit? Cat's out of the bag, now."

He scowled as he remembered one particular cat. Then he fixed his amber gaze on her sad, blotchy, tear-stained face.

"Look," he said. "I want to live. I'm going to live. You don't have to like me. I don't have to like you. But we've done well to stick together through this. And I don't think you should lay down and give up just yet. Not while there's still a snowball's chance we can make it out."

At that, she gave a hollow, short, bark of a laugh and shook her head.

"I can't even try to fix this.. "

And now, as he reminded her, she couldn't assume all the weight. For he was likely correct to assume it was too late.

"Opus Dey.. " she paused, squirming some as she spoke. "My boss. His name is Opus Dey."

She raised her head to gage his reaction. She'd be surprised if he didn't know the man atleast by reputation.

Opus Dey. It sounded awfully familiar. Where had he heard it before? It was right on the tip of his tongue.

Oh. Right. Ye'lard. It was that name he'd laughed about back at the inn. He wondered briefly if that big ox and his wife were still alive.

Probably not.

Fletch shuddered and tried to pull his jacket tighter. He needed breakfast. He needed a drink. He needed... "Right, well, that's a start," he replied as he dug through his pockets. He grumbled. He had enough tobacco for now, but if they were roughing it, he'd have to ration. Still. He needed a smoke. It would help him think, after all. He struck a match on a nearby stone and lit up.

"So." He extended his scruffy neck and blew a stream of blue-gray smoke to mingle with the mist. "You told me to get out of the city. Surely that means his territory ends somewhere, then. And what about rival gangs? Any around worth mentioning?"

She frowned at his question. 
"I... I'm actually not even sure," She said, sighing at the realization they likely were both fucked.
"I.. it.. the only thing I could consider is asking to have my contract adjusted to compensate for this loss..."

And she didn't even know what sort of loss this had entailed. But.. well.. 

The idea was a start. And it would atleast keep Fletcher out of this mess.. or atleast that was the idea. 

She closed her eyes while she sighed and groaned. Everything was so fucked up now.

Fletcher coughed. "Contract? Surely you're not thinking of actually going back to this arsehole. Woman, why aren't you running? Just...get out of this place and start a new life in some backwater. Better yet, get on a ship and put an ocean between you and him." He took a drag, still eyeing Skippy like he couldn't quite figure her out. "Why're you so bent on giving up before the fight's even begun? I know you have more spit in you than that — I've seen it. Do you really want to die this badly? Or worse: be someone's indentured until your good years are spent?"

She grit her teeth, straining her jaw as she just let him vent.  Then she lowered her gaze and growled, "Don't you think I've tried that? I.. this... the beatings were worse than this. And had I not..." she couldn't finished the thought. 

"I was fortunate someone found me."

Fletch looked Skippy over for a while after she'd finished. The hardened confidence fell from his expression, now replaced by quiet understanding. It was rare for him to be at such a loss for words as he was now, but...Emperor, she reminded him of someone.

"I'm sorry," he said at last, and all of the harshness had dropped from his voice. "I didn't know." He took a drag, still watching her, poring her over like she was a page in a book of secrets. He sighed and rubbed his face again. "Erm. Look. Skip — Miss...endria. Say we do this your way. How do we get you where you need to be? With your leg and all. How do we do this?"

She avoided his gaze, eyes burning with tears. She was in no mood for this.

"Where I need to be?" She smiled bitterly as more hot tears rolled down her cheeks. "Might as well cart me off to an open grave."

She was so incredibly, royally fucked.She shook her head, not even knowing what to say.

"I.. don't even know," She muttered, defeated. She supposed She could just.. feed herself to the lion.