A muffled shot rings.

Unable to cry out, she falls, smacking her head on the pavement.

Screams erupt through the air but, with the jarring of her head and the tightness in her chest—a tightness that is hot and liquid—she pays no heed.

There is uncertainty here.  In the moments when motion crowds around her—hands touching, pulling, trying to calm—her breath still escapes her and the weight of existence seems to bare down.

Something runs freely from her nose and mouth.

701 drops the girl’s limp hand.  He draws a deep, focusing breath, shaking the remnants of her fading aura from his Mind.   Abruptly, he rises, and quickly makes his way through the screaming, scared, confused crowd.

In an alley across the street from the fallen, the cries, the bleeding, 701 sees what he is looking for.

A shadow.

A fey, glamoured to hide his features—elongated and angular, eyes of mercury.  He is bent over, disassembling what looks to be a rifle, placing the pieces into a dirty gym bag.

The fey zips the bag, rises, turns, and stops when his mercurial eyes fall on 701.  Those mercurial eyes then widen in horror and panic.  The bag drops.

701 raises his hands.  Energy crackles.

The fey screams.

~ by liberdementia on January 13, 2010.

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