locked ] [ you'll be steady as you go on like a blackbird through the dark
The arrival of Jane had certainly been an auspicious occasion for Maura, despite knowing that this city held many dangers, and could inflict untold pain upon either of them, and people they knew. Maura hadn't been a social butterfly, and never would be -- her experience with the living was always far less conventional than most people's -- but she had made a few acquaintances. And so far, none of them had seemed overly repelled by her, and her fairly conspicuous quirks. Having Jane around was like falling onto a soft bed after a long, tense day, and it imbued with a sense of calm and relief, even while she worried about what lay ahead for them.
On this particular day, Maura rises early, ahead of Jane, and makes her way to the small cafe she's been introduced to. Procuring a cup of hot tea today, rather than coffee, she's ready to make her way to work; sadly, there's no shortage of dead bodies in Chicago, and she's glad she can be of some use in that capacity. She does love her job immensely, and generally operates with a practiced sense of detachment, though there are those occasions when it pains her to see a body on her table: the death of a child, particularly. She doesn't spend much time preoccupied with thoughts about what the day might entail, though. The sudden commotion ahead of her is something entirely unexpected, and she furrows her brow, watching carefully from a distance. There's shouting, obvious vitriol in the voices of the men up ahead. They're attacking someone, that much is clear now. And Maura ducks behind the dumpster, kneeling to keep herself as concealed as possible.
Chicago Liberation Front.
They want to make an example of this man, kill him, put him in display as a warning to other Wanderers. She's heard about how brutal they are, how they won't hesitate to torture and kill Wanderers, but being so close to it, hearing it, and being unable to do anything, is just as torturous for her.
No, she can do something.
As quietly as possible, Maura pulls her journal out, scribbling a note to Jane, and Detective Flack: Someone's being attacked. I can hear everything. She includes directions with the cross-streets, hoping Jane's woken up by now, or will be soon. If not, perhaps Detective Flack will arrive before her.
From the sound of it, though, he doesn't have much time. They don't seem intent on holding him long, they'd rather kill him and display their work proudly on the network for all to see. The thought makes her stomach tighten.
There's gradually less sound emitted from the man they're holding hostage, and she knows all too well what that means; the silence that fills up the minutes after that last death rattle are chilling. He's either dead or very close to being dead. Maura hopes for the latter, clings to that small sliver of hope that by the time they flee, there might be chance enough to save him.
From the snippets of conversation she can overhear, the CLF at least believe him to be dead, and there's nothing else they need or want from him: they have the videotape of what they've done, after all. She waits until she hears their footsteps tapering off in the distance, then waits again to the count of twenty seconds, and finally moves unsteadily to stand on her feet, hurrying over to where the man's body is laying.
It looks so much like a mob hit, too much like one: brutal slashes across his neck, ice pick to his chest. There's nothing merciful in their method of killing, no shred of humanity visible in what they've done. Maura's chest tightens now, as she kneels before him, her voice constricted with pain and sadness.
"I'm too late, I can't repair the damage," she murmurs to herself out loud, rambling, wishing there's some way to talk herself through this in a way that will ensure a positive outcome. But she's used to death, and can recognize it when she sees it.
She should have done something, anything. She curses herself for not having her gun with her; she's been carrying one around sometimes, mostly in the evenings. If she'd had it with her, she could have saved him.
A man she doesn't recognize rushes over, wanting to know if he can help in some way. There's so much blood, too much.
On this particular day, Maura rises early, ahead of Jane, and makes her way to the small cafe she's been introduced to. Procuring a cup of hot tea today, rather than coffee, she's ready to make her way to work; sadly, there's no shortage of dead bodies in Chicago, and she's glad she can be of some use in that capacity. She does love her job immensely, and generally operates with a practiced sense of detachment, though there are those occasions when it pains her to see a body on her table: the death of a child, particularly. She doesn't spend much time preoccupied with thoughts about what the day might entail, though. The sudden commotion ahead of her is something entirely unexpected, and she furrows her brow, watching carefully from a distance. There's shouting, obvious vitriol in the voices of the men up ahead. They're attacking someone, that much is clear now. And Maura ducks behind the dumpster, kneeling to keep herself as concealed as possible.
Chicago Liberation Front.
They want to make an example of this man, kill him, put him in display as a warning to other Wanderers. She's heard about how brutal they are, how they won't hesitate to torture and kill Wanderers, but being so close to it, hearing it, and being unable to do anything, is just as torturous for her.
No, she can do something.
As quietly as possible, Maura pulls her journal out, scribbling a note to Jane, and Detective Flack: Someone's being attacked. I can hear everything. She includes directions with the cross-streets, hoping Jane's woken up by now, or will be soon. If not, perhaps Detective Flack will arrive before her.
From the sound of it, though, he doesn't have much time. They don't seem intent on holding him long, they'd rather kill him and display their work proudly on the network for all to see. The thought makes her stomach tighten.
There's gradually less sound emitted from the man they're holding hostage, and she knows all too well what that means; the silence that fills up the minutes after that last death rattle are chilling. He's either dead or very close to being dead. Maura hopes for the latter, clings to that small sliver of hope that by the time they flee, there might be chance enough to save him.
From the snippets of conversation she can overhear, the CLF at least believe him to be dead, and there's nothing else they need or want from him: they have the videotape of what they've done, after all. She waits until she hears their footsteps tapering off in the distance, then waits again to the count of twenty seconds, and finally moves unsteadily to stand on her feet, hurrying over to where the man's body is laying.
It looks so much like a mob hit, too much like one: brutal slashes across his neck, ice pick to his chest. There's nothing merciful in their method of killing, no shred of humanity visible in what they've done. Maura's chest tightens now, as she kneels before him, her voice constricted with pain and sadness.
"I'm too late, I can't repair the damage," she murmurs to herself out loud, rambling, wishing there's some way to talk herself through this in a way that will ensure a positive outcome. But she's used to death, and can recognize it when she sees it.
She should have done something, anything. She curses herself for not having her gun with her; she's been carrying one around sometimes, mostly in the evenings. If she'd had it with her, she could have saved him.
A man she doesn't recognize rushes over, wanting to know if he can help in some way. There's so much blood, too much.