two in the afternoon, and heat licks the stiff air. her ribs weigh down with it– the shade does nothing but give her more cause to stop, lower the gun a second later than she intended to. some would call it a practical impulse ( better safe than sorry, better alive than dead ), but she has never been driven by impulse for most of her life– elektra measures her life in strides of certainty. ( a graduation certificate, somewhere in her quarters, to prove that to herself: and she’d changed her mind not long after. )
“sorry.” professional, concise, time spent in service bubbling just under it– and breaking, decaying with every second. “ i had to be sure. the blood… ” it’s not yours is it? someone dead, someone dying, killed. she looks again. @aicidos is not a civilian, is not injured, is somewhere she ought not be anywhere near, is someone with a face that scratches something familiar in the back of her mind.
her voice tightens, her calf-muscles coiled to run the moment she has her answer. “how long ago was it?” / sc.
she supposes her arrogance led her here, hands still bound behind her back and that man’s blood getting drier across her face the more she hurried down and away from the stairs that led to the church. she takes a turn to the first alleyway along her path, if only to collect herself as briefly as her mind allows, but the image is still there. mao yenrai, or the shell that used to house him, and that mind-numbing opera that a part of faye hoped would never end— not without her coming up with a plan by the last act, at least. despite everything, she’s alive, but that could change at any moment.
it’s not long before she’s staring at the barrel of another gun, and then at the woman’s eyes. case in point.
“not really fair that i can’t even hold a knife to a gunfight, don’t you think?” faye tries her luck, as she usually does, and squirms briefly to reveal her lack of hands at the moment. when she apologizes, faye remains still. so, she thinks, not more manpower for vicious? they had run a background check for her, after all. “…the evening mass should still be going right about now,” somehow, the stranger strikes her as the kind who would get her meaning— which was worrying in and of itself. and yet, faye is still not quite in a position to hold any leverage. “if you help me with these cuffs, i can give you the details.” then, an overdue pause, just as faye finds herself repeating the same mistake: getting ahead of herself. “hey, you’re not with them, are you? you… don’t seem like a cop.”