The Running Game E-Book

L.E. Fitzpatrick

• Herausgeber: Next Chapter
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

Rachel’s father called it the running game. Count the exits, calculate the routes, and always be ready to run. She is a Reacher, wanted by the government and the criminal underworld for her psionic powers.

Charlie and his brother John have a reputation for accomplishing the impossible. But after losing his family, Charlie is a broken mess and John is barely keeping him afloat. In desperation, they take a job from a ruthless crime lord, only to discover the girl they are hunting is a Reacher. One of their own kind.

With the help of dangerous and dubious allies, can Rachel turn the game around and save herself?

Leseprobe

The Running Game

Reachers Series Book 1

L. E. Fitzpatrick

Copyright (C) 2016 L. E. Fitzpatrick

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2019 by Next Chapter

Published 2019 by Next Chapter

Cover art by http://www.thecovercollection.com/

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author's permission.

Always be ready to run because they'll always be coming for you. Whatever happens, they'll always be coming for you…

1

Five past eleven.

Rachel's shift should have finished three hours ago. She slammed her time card into the machine. Nothing. She gave it a kick, then another until it released, punching her card and signing her out for the night. The hospital locker room was unusually quiet. There was a nurse signing out for the night, two doctors signing in. Nobody spoke to each other–it wasn't that kind of place. Grabbing her threadbare coat from her locker, she drew it over her scrubs–the only barrier between her and the unforgiving October night. She walked through the ER waiting room, eyes fixed on the exit. You had to ignore the desperation. Three hours over a twelve hour shift, you had no choice but to pretend like you didn't care. Push past the mothers offering up their sick children like you could just lay your hands on them and everything would be better. Push past the factory workers bleeding out on the floor. Push that door open and get out. Get home. You had to. In six hours the whole thing would start again.

The first blast of cold air slapped the life into her aching body. The second blast nearly pushed her back inside. She tightened the coat around herself, but the icy wind still managed to weave its fingers through the thin material and loose seams. November was coming, and coming fast. She quickened her pace, trying to outrun the winter.

She hurried past the skeletal remains of another fallen bank, a relic of the days before the economy crashed and the country went to hell. Now the abandoned building housed those left to the streets: the too old, the too young, the weak, the stupid. Cops would be coming soon, moving them on, pushing them from one shadow to another until dawn or death, whichever came first. But for now they sat huddled around burning canisters, silently soaking in the heat as though they could carry that one flame through winter. They didn't notice Rachel. Even the most evil of men lurking in the doorways, waiting for helpless things to scurry past, overlooked the young doctor as she made her way home. Nobody ever saw her. At least they never used to.

Three – two – one.

Nine past eleven. Right on cue.

She felt someone watching her. It was always the same place, opposite the third window of the old bank. He was hidden, not in the bank but close. So close she could almost feel his breath on the back of her neck. She'd watched muggings before, these were desperate times and people took what they could when they could. There were rapes too, five this week, at least five that had needed medical care. It was a dangerous city and getting worse. But this was different. He–and for some reason she knew it was a he–did nothing. For a week he had been there, never betraying his exact position or his intentions, but she could feel him and the longer he waited the more he tormented her. He knew where she lived, where she worked, the route she took to the exchange store. And he escorted her home each night without ever showing himself. It made no sense. And that made it so much worse.

She wasn't intimidated easily; doctors in St Mary's couldn't be. It didn't matter that she was only five feet tall and looked like a strong wind would knock her down; she could still take care of herself. But the stalking had spooked her. The sleepless nights followed as she wondered who he was, what he wanted, if he knew.

There was nowhere for her to go in the city, no place she could hide, no escape. If she wanted to eat she had to work, and he would be waiting for her outside the hospital–watching, doing nothing. She was tired of it, tired of everything, but there was something she could do. She could make it stop, one way or another. Whatever he had planned, whatever he wanted to do to her, he would have to look her in the eye as he did it, because she was done running.

She stopped walking and turned.

The street was empty. But she could still feel him there. The buildings pressed their darkness into the street and the spattering of hissing lamplights did little to expose the nocturnal danger below. There was noise. There was always noise; voices, vehicles, the persistent buzzing of the electricity struggling to reach the edges of the city. So much going on, yet so little to see–a perfect place to hide.

“Okay you pervert,” she whispered to herself. “Where're you hiding?”

The road stretched back into a tightrope. Gingerly, her feet edged back towards the ruined bank. She scanned the buildings around her, the upper windows, the ground level doorways, waiting for him to pounce. One step, two steps. Look. Nothing. She retraced her steps to the next building. Then the next. He felt so close–why couldn't she see him?

“You want me, well here I am, you freak. Come and get me!”

There was a shout from the bank. Someone running. A man. Her stomach clenched. She braced herself. He pushed by her, hurrying away. It wasn't him.

She turned, her eyes trying to make sense of what she was seeing. Then warm breath touched the back of her neck.

“Get down!”

The world went white.

With her face pressed into the filthy, cold road, Rachel waited. The ground beneath her trembled, but that was it. She frowned, waiting for something, trying to understand what she was doing lying in a stinking puddle at the side of the road. Hands were lifting her to her feet. She turned to the bank, but it was gone. Flames licked at the pile of rubble in its place. People stumbled from the wrecked building, choking and coughing, others with their eyes as wide as their mouths. But there was no sound, just staggered movement and growing heat. Rachel watched, feeling more curious than afraid. The silent panic was fascinating. She made to move and her ears exploded with noise. The shock of it knocked her back. Screaming, cries for help, the ringing of sirens came from every direction.

The ground shook again and the building exploded another mortar firework into the street. She felt her body being tugged away. But people were coming to help. People were still alive. She was a doctor, she was needed.

“I can help these people,” she shouted trying to fight off the man holding her back.

“It's a lure bomb.” The voice was so cool it made her freeze. She looked at the stranger and swallowed the clumps of gravel lodged in the back of her throat. She had wanted to meet him face to face but not like this.

He stared at her with blank eyes. The dead and dying meant nothing to him. He was there for her and her alone. His hand still held her shoulder, holding her back. The hand that had pulled her to safety. So many questions ran through her head but she could only push one out.

“A lure bomb?”

A small explosion that drew in the police, she raced to remember. Followed by the bigger bomb that would blow them to pieces. She turned back to the space where the bank should have been. More people were rushing to help, pulling at the arms and legs of the buried. If they were lucky bodies would come with them.

“We have to warn…” The man had gone.

The sirens grew louder.

Rachel drew in a steadying breath. Three hours over a twelve hour shift – you have no choice but to pretend like you don't care.

She started to run.

2

Charlie jolted awake in his chair, his face sodden with sweat. He wiped his forehead with his sleeve. Pain coursed up his back, reminding him of his nightmare. The recurring dream of the day it all went wrong. He fumbled through his pockets until he found his pills. The placebo was instantaneous, and the pain relief followed shortly after. He rubbed his eyes and returned to the camera positioned towards the apartment in the opposite tower block.

The lights were on, curtains open. Someone had come home and he'd missed it. His one job and he'd screwed it up. He kicked out at the crutch resting against his chair and watched as it skidded across the floor out of his reach. Flexing his hands he willed the crutch back to him. Nothing happened.

“Shit.”

He lifted himself from his chair too quickly and his right leg buckled, knocking over the camera – only the most expensive bit of kit they owned. The lens cracked.

“Shit, shit, shit.” He shouted from the floor. The shockwaves of pain started to subside. Anger and shame fought their usual battle, while the voice inside his head urged him to just quit already. And, as usual, a persistent nagging from his bladder brought everything into perspective. He carried a lot of indignity on his shoulders, the last thing he needed was to be found sitting in a pool of his own piss.

This wasn't how his life was supposed to be. Charlie Smith had been a legend. He was a Reacher, born with incredible powers and an arrogance that made anything possible. With his former self firmly in his mind, he rested his head on the floor and focused on the crutch again. His fingers stretched out, reaching for the plastic handle in his head. He could still sense the weight and feel of it with his powers, but to move it took an effort his brain struggled with. This should have been easy, but his telekinetic powers were failing him. The camera shook, turned on its side and then stopped altogether. The effort was exhausting and embarrassing.

Slowly, because nowadays everything had to be done slowly, he edged himself over to his crutch and, with it in hand, he managed to make it to the bathroom. It was a small victory, but it was nearly enough to cheer him up. That was until he caught sight of himself in the broken mirror fixed above the sink. He used to have charisma. He used to be able to smile his way out of trouble. Now he was lucky if people didn't cross the street to avoid him. Greying hair, dull red eyes, pallid skin. He was thirty-three; he looked fifty; he felt like a pensioner. The great Reacher Charlie Smith–reduced to this. Things had changed so radically in just a year. One year, two months, and eight days.

The lock in the front door turned. Charlie straightened his clothes. Everything was normal, everything was fine. He could cope, of course he could cope. He checked his smile in the mirror and stepped out of the bathroom as his brother kicked open the door and then kicked it closed again, to make his point.

“Everything okay?” Charlie asked.

His younger brother wore a scowl so deep it could have been chiselled into his skull. Everything was clearly not okay. But with John it was impossible to tell how far up the disaster scale the situation was. Charlie had seen that same scowl when a job went sour and he'd seen it when someone spilt coffee on John's suit.

“What happened?”

John glanced away. He was annoyed with himself – never a good sign. Charlie braved a crutch-supported step towards him. There was a four year age gap between the two of them. and it had never been more apparent.

Charlie gestured for them to sit down at the fold-up table in the dining space. Most of the time John had everything under control. It was rare for him to make mistakes or miscalculations. and when he did he would beat himself up over it for days. He would need Charlie, a professional in screwing things up, to put everything into perspective.

“She saw me,” John confessed.

“She saw you!” Charlie said in disbelief. “You're like a creature of the night, how the hell could see you? Jesus, most of the time I don't even see you and I know you're coming.”

John's fists clenched and unclenched. He stood up to work off the tension and started to pace; short, quick steps, squeaking his leather shoes against the linoleum floor.

“There was an explosion. Some bastard left a lure bomb right on her route. I had to pull her away before the goddamn building fell on her.”

Charlie pinched the bridge of his nose. Even when his brother messed up he still managed to do something right. “What you mean is you saved her?”

John glared at him. “You're missing the point.”

Charlie rolled his eyes. Only John would get himself so worked up over saving the life of their mark. “Listen, do you think he'd pay us if he found out we let her die?” Charlie said.

“You don't know that. We have no idea what he wants her for!”

It was true, they didn't and the fact was starting to chafe. The infamous Smith Brothers always knew the cards on the table before the deck was even dealt. Charlie planned jobs like he was writing a script. Nobody ever missed a cue. At least that was how it used to be a year ago. A year, two months, and eight days. Since then the jobs had dried up. They were lucky to get the Rachel Aaron case and that was only because Charlie's old mentor put in a good word for them. But luck and even the backing of an old priest didn't make the unknown any less troubling. They were out of their depth and they were still only in the shallows.

“Maybe he wants her dead,” John stated.

“If he wanted her dead he would have asked us to kill her,” Charlie replied. “And if he wanted her dead he wouldn't be approaching a priest to see if he knew anyone who could find her. He wants her found John, that's all.”

“I don't like it,” John snapped. “This whole job feels off.”

“I know.” Charlie took a deep breath, his next sentence shouldn't have made him nervous but it did. “Which is why I'm going to do a little field work myself.”

John never looked surprised, or happy, or anything other than mildly impatient, but when something pleased him his right eyebrow would lift ever so slightly. As it rose, Charlie felt a pang of guilt that he hadn't said it sooner.

“I thought you were a liability,” John jibed.

“It's surveillance in a hospital John, who's going to blend in better, me or you?”

The eyebrow perched higher on John's forehead. He'd been patient with Charlie, more patient than Charlie felt he'd deserved, waiting for his brother to get back in the game instead of going out on his own. John hadn't lost his edge. He didn't have a problem with stairs. He could drink what he wanted. Sleep when he needed. There was nothing wrong with his abilities. Charlie was holding them both back, but he knew John still clung to the hope that one day Charlie would recover and things would go back to normal. And Charlie needed him too much to tell him that was never going to happen.

“You sure about this?” John asked.

“We need the money.”

“What if he does want to kill her, or worse?”

Despite what Charlie had said it was always a possibility. They weren't working for the good guys on this one and the girl had been hard to find, even with Charlie's powers. It was not going to end well for her and maybe that was why Charlie hadn't asked enough questions.

“We need the money,” Charlie assured him. “That has to be our priority.” That wasn't him talking. Sure he'd done questionable things, bad things even, but he had morality and right now it was screaming inside his head that this was all wrong.

John nodded, and Charlie was relieved to see that John was sharing his sentiments. “Fine, but if it has to be done I'll do it.”

“No, you don't need this on your conscience. I'll do it.”

John gave him a look. “Are we seriously going to argue about who gets to kill her?”

“Has to,” Charlie corrected. “When you say 'gets to kill her' you kind of make it sound like a bonus prize. And no, we're not going to argue because I'll do it.” He didn't have to say because it was his fault all of this had happened – that was a given.

John folded his arms. “Okay, but I get to dispose of the body.”

Charlie scowled. “Did you mean to say 'get to'?”

His brother smirked. He had a unique sense of humour.

3

It took eight years for the British Empire to fall.

Like dominoes, major players in Europe and the western world started to topple, one by one. Each country falling hard enough to ensure the chain reaction was cataclysmic across the globe. Historians disagree where the trouble started; some argue it went as far back as the second world war when the powers in charge set to picking up the broken pieces of the world and gluing them back together. Others are more cynical, claiming that man was destined towards devastation as soon as the first communities were formed by primitive apes.

However it happened, the cracks had been under the surface for a long, long time, growing weaker and more unstable. Internal conflict kept many countries in a stalemate. Where poverty and war still had a stronghold the effect of what was about to happen would barely touch the Richter scale. But in places like America, France, and Britain, places that had settled comfortably into peace and grown rich from their warring neighbours, the disturbance would be off the charts.

It was the financial crisis that struck the first blow. Each country struggled to balance its homeland cashbook, taking more credit and lending out money until the value of currency plummeted. When the system fell apart civilised government started to crumble, unable to compromise political greed and public integrity. The people revolted, seeing big cats in the big cities squandering money while their families starved in the suburbs. In France and Britain the rioting lasted five years, erupting into a burst of devastating civil war. Places like Red Forest and further north became impassable trenches of conflict that even the militia couldn't conquer.

The civil unrest was brought to a temporary halt when disease started to spread through Yorkshire and Lancashire. Birth deformities, viruses, and contamination concerns separated Britain into two halves and all who could fled south to escape the troubles. Northern Britain was abandoned and even Wales and Cornwall found themselves lost in isolated beacons out of London's reach. Disease spread, terrorism battled prejudice, and before anyone had realised it, aid packets were being flown over from Germany and the Australians were holding rock concerts for British kids in poverty. Most of the country slummed, counties broke off, and suddenly all that anyone seemed to care about was the thriving capital, where business men still wore Armani and sipped espressos. And that was the hardest pill to swallow; despite what was happening less than a hundred miles away, London was still thriving in a modern utopia.

People fled to the great city; their safe haven which grew like a tourniquet around London. Looking to fill the rumoured jobs and sample the last remnants of the good life, most found, when they got there, that London was walled off with wire fences as tall as the buildings they were enclosing. The cops kept watch and if you couldn't pay, you weren't coming in. The gathering crowd clustered and culminated, and eventually Safe Haven, or S'aven as the locals called it, became a city in its own right; a city with rulers as powerful as any of the fat men sitting in parliament square, and just as ruthless.

Pinky Morris had been one of those men, or at least his late brother Frank was. Pinky was more of the Deputy Prime Minster, to cover the summer holidays. They arrived in S'aven, when it was still a town of tents and ramshackle buildings, to sell hooch and marijuana to the refugees. People were starving but they could all afford a couple of joints. Business grew rapidly and one day Pinky blinked and the Morris brothers were at the top of the pecking order with an entire city underneath them. Frank was the boss, all smiles and threats, and Pinky was always there to back his little brother up with brawn and attitude. Together they could do anything. And they did.

That was more than a decade ago, before Pinky lost his empire, lost his respect, lost his brother. He was about to turn fifty-five, he'd lost most of his hair, his stomach was starting to sag, and he was back to running a small drug cartel in the back of his wife's club like he was just approaching twenty. His life had circled and he was pinning everything he had on it starting again.

The walls of his office were plastered with photograph after photograph; a memorial to the good old days. The little frozen moments captured a time Pinky could barely believe had happened. Hundreds of historical faces stared at him from his cramped office at the back of the bar, scrutinising the state he was in. And why wouldn't they, they were from a time when he was on top and meant something in S'aven. Those glossy faces that surrounded him in his youth were gone now, mostly dead or hovering in the vicinity as haggard and as old and as spent as he was. What did they think of him now? It was a question he'd try to avoid asking himself. The answers only ever made him angry. After all it wasn't his fault he was fighting for space at the bottom of the sewers again; he was just a victim of circumstance.

But all of that was about to change. He could feel a ball vibrating in the pit of his stomach. It was ambition and it had been a long time since he'd allowed himself to dream. The depression was almost over.

His eyes fell on the face that occupied every single picture: his brother, Frank. Pinky had tried to change things when he died. He had to. Frank had left them penniless with a reputation as worthless as their bank balance. Pinky had watched Frank's demise, and he had decided to do things differently. He didn't want to rule the city in fear, watching his back in every reflection. He let things slide now and again. He let the Russians move closer to his territory. He went easy on his boys. And he watched as it all came apart. Frank would never have let it happen, Pinky could see that now. His brother wasn't perfect, but he was right for the city. S'aven needed a man like Frank Morris, and Pinky just regretted it had taken him seven sorry years to realise those shoes needed filling, not replacing.

The man sitting opposite him coughed, clearing his throat rather than trying to attract Pinky's attention. He used to be called Donnie Boom and his face was scattered across the wall beside nearly every picture of Frank, not that anyone would recognise him. Most of Donnie's face was melted away, scarred from the explosion seven years ago. Even Pinky had to second guess himself when Donnie first made contact again.

That was four months ago, and Donnie's grey eyeball still made Pinky's stomach churn. But even before the scars, Donnie was enough to give a grown man nightmares. Now he just looked like the monster he had always been inside. And after all this time apart Pinky had forgotten just how crazy his late brother's best friend actually was.

“You blew it up,” Pinky stated with impatience. He rapped his fingers against the desk. His nails were bitten to the pinks of his fingers, the skin on his knuckles cracked and sore. They were the hands of an old man.

“I did what needed to be done.”

“Under whose authority?”

Donnie eyed Pinky with intense frustration, that grey eyeball pulsating in its scorched socket. “Your brother's. That bitch killed him, she needed to be taught a lesson.”

Pinky lifted his thick rimmed glasses and rubbed the tiredness from his eyes. Donnie didn't understand the situation in S'aven anymore, or he just didn't care. Blowing up the most reputable brothel in S'aven was like starting an underground war and he didn't have the man power or the money to fight it. He was beginning to regret allowing Donnie back into the fold despite all that Donnie was promising him.

“You need to lie low for a while.”

“I can help with–”

Pinky raised his hand sharply. “You want to fucking help, you keep your bombs out of my city!” Pinky yelled, surprising himself.

He sat back in his chair and stared at Donnie. His temper was starting to get the better of him these days. He couldn't remember Frank ever yelling. He never had to; Frank commanded respect without it.

Pinky calmed himself and lowered his voice. “Enough buildings are going up around this place without you helping. People are going to be asking about you now, Donnie. My people are going to be asking about you.”

“Then let them know I'm back. I don't get all this cloak and dagger shit.”

“You don't get it. You put a bomb under my brother's table and blew him half way across S'aven!”

“I didn't mean to kill them. I told you, the instructions were from Frank's phone. I was set up.”

“Exactly and you want the people who set you up on to us, do you? Whoever it was I want them with their guard down, do you understand me? You stay off the grid and don't come around here anymore. I'll call you when I need you.”

“What about when you get the girl?”

“I'll call you. Once we have her, we have everything. But we have to play this carefully, Donnie. Frank pissed off a lot of people. We can't just assume it was Lulu Roxton that killed him. When we have the girl, we'll know.”

Donnie nodded. He was crazy but he wasn't stupid.

“I appreciate what you're doing,” he said running what was left of his hand through his matted red hair. “You didn't have to believe me.”

“You took a risk coming back here, I figured you were either suicidal or telling the truth,” Pinky told him.

“I had to,” Donnie assured him. “I have to know who did it, Pinky. I loved Frank. What they made me do to him…” Donnie shook his head, close to crying – it was an unsettling sight. “You're right, I shouldn't be here. Sometimes it's hard for me to think. My head gets kind of messed up, from the explosion. I'll get out of your way.”

He reached the door before he turned around. “You remember you said I'd get to finish them?”

Pinky nodded; he did remember. With that, Donnie left. There was no way Pinky was going to let some deranged, half mad pyromaniac finish anything.

“What did he want?” Pinky's wife stood in the open doorway.

“Revenge,” Pinky replied.

Riva swayed into the room. For a woman in her forties she was still turning heads. She smiled at Pinky, it was a natural smile, unblemished by silicone and cosmetics like the rest of the wives he knew. Sometimes Pinky would look at her and wonder what the hell she was still doing with him. He wondered if she asked herself the same question.

“Any news on the girl?”

“They think they have her.”

“Do you want me to send someone to get her?” The question set Pinky on edge. He still had men, not as many as the old days, but there was still an entourage. Only now his wife had her own money from the club and she was investing it all in a legal security firm which was making his own boys look like school kids. Using them would be better, but they were Riva's boys, Riva's bodyguards, Riva's heavies, Riva's assassins. Not his. He didn't like it.

Pinky shook his head. “I'm going to send a couple of the old guys.” He didn't say 'my' guys for her benefit.

“What about those brothers?”

“We'll deal with them when she's safely locked away. This time it's going to be different, Riva. I'm going to get my city back.”

4

Eight block towers bulged against the wilting greenery of Nelson Square. Each building a soaring twenty storeys of congested apartment spaces, squeezing families into single rooms with three foot square bathrooms and a water system that rivalled a third world country. Eight concrete hives, buzzing with an overzealous shot of electricity that flickered and shorted every time someone tried to boil a kettle. This was home for the people with jobs, where they could return for a few hours' sleep and be grateful they had a roof and a hundred other families over their heads. If safety came in numbers, this was the safest place on Earth.

Rachel's apartment was on the eleventh floor, not high enough to escape the smell, but, with the lift broken, it served as a free gym. She ran up the stairs, reached her door and struggled to unlock it in her panic. As she closed it, the second explosion shuddered through the room. The power cut out. Rachel stood in the dark and counted to ten. Nothing. She edged forward into the blackness, reaching for the bed, then the step up to the counter that pretended it was a kitchen. When she finally reached the sink she opened her curtains.

The power cut had taken out the whole square and the surrounding buildings. In the distance an orange glow marked the carnage she'd walked through. Blue lights flashed against the road; a strobe effect for the siren disco shrilling through the night. It gave her just enough light to make out the rest of her apartment. Not that there was much to see. The bed, the kitchen area, a chest of drawers and her boyfriend's pride and joy: the battered old television. The lights suddenly flickered back on. The electricity board was getting quicker at sorting out the shortages, but then they were having to do it four or five times a day.

Her head was throbbing. She massaged her temples and felt a gash in her forehead. It wasn't deep but she'd been face down in whatever shit had built up on the road. If she didn't clean it there'd be a cardboard box and incinerator with her name on it. She ran through her chores as she made her way to the shower room. She needed to wash, to eat, and to sleep. She desperately needed to sleep.

Her private time was regimented like a military operation. She showered under a trickle of icy water in the dark, washing away the blood and rubble. Ignoring the shivers, she dressed herself in as many layers as she could find and searched the kitchen until she found her supply of protein bars. She ate a single bar on the bed, chewing it into a manageable paste and washing it down with half a cup of the stale water she had boiled before her shift started. It had taken her twenty minutes, leaving her just over five and a half hours for sleep.

It didn't matter what had happened. Instinct claimed her body and she wrapped herself up in the duvets. Her eyes dropped before her head hit the pillow and for the final moments of consciousness all she could see was the stranger's face. He was nothing like what she had expected, looking more like a male model than a peeping tom. The weight of his hand still pressed into her shoulder, protecting her or controlling her, it was hard to tell.

“Rach', are you awake?”

Something clattered onto the floor–it sounded like dishes. She blinked in the dull light while her hand patted the floor to find the small alarm clock under the bed. Three hours sleep – just great. She groaned and sat up, there was no point trying for a fourth. Mark was rummaging through the cupboards, trying to be as quiet as he could and failing miserably.

She sat up and watched him creaking open the cupboards, shuffling their pans around in an idle, fruitless search until he found the tin of protein bars which she always kept on the same shelf, in the same cupboard. Four years and he still couldn't remember–four long, miserable years.

“Hey, you're awake!” It was a mixture of surprise and delight, Mark's default mood. He was always happy, always smiling like a simpleton while the world around him fell apart.

Rachel couldn't repay the sentiment.

“I am now,” she grumbled. “Are you still on duty?”

Usually Mark changed at the police station. She rarely saw him in full uniform–a status quo she preferred. There was something about it–the armour, the badge, something about the whole persona of a cop that turned her stomach. Mark wasn't a bad looking guy but in his padding and helmet he was repulsive. Cops were different in S'aven. They didn't solve crime, they didn't keep the streets safe. Cops in S'aven made sure nothing bad got into the city and nothing good got out. “Protect and Serve” was embroidered into every jacket; they just overlooked the “Ourselves” clause to their oath.

“Yeah, there was this big explosion–did you hear it?”

Lying to him came more naturally than telling the truth. “No, must have slept through.”

“It's bad. Really bad. Seven dead. Can you believe it?”