Welcome to the strangest love story ever told.

I am the magical pen suspended by crane over the fourth wall. I write stuff and what I write tends to happen. The following is a foreword of sorts:

For continuity purposes, I regard the English dub of the anime as the definitive version, if only because the dub's translation is, with few exceptions, of higher quality.

Because I want to write a Roberta-focused story I've taken a few select liberties with canon. In the anime, Roberta is more or less crippled by the end of Blood Trail. Since being crippled would place a severe handicap on her ability to effectively kick ass, I've decided to alter Roberta's injuries somewhat.

To keep things realistic, I've made sure that she did not escape from the battle unscathed. Her right eye has been seriously injured and, at the time of this story, still has not fully healed. She has also lost two digits (index and middle) on her right hand.

However, her right leg remains intact, as does her left arm.

I'm well aware that in the anime Roberta can gun down entire platoons of armed men with a Kevlar umbrella and fight trained US Army soldiers like she's playing the lead role in a Mel Gibson movie. My Roberta is still a badass. Only, due to her injuries, she's more like Bruce Willis on steroids (in a maid costume; shit, I have an idea for a new Bruce Willis movie) than the Terminator.

For now she is, at least. The Bloodhound sleeps…

Fans of my all-but-abandoned Mass Effect story may notice some similarities between that fan fiction and this one. Will I ever return to Cool Blue? Probably not, but it's always a possibility. However, if you enjoyed what little I wrote of Cool Blue then you may very well enjoy this story as well. It will deal with some similar themes (insanity, the horrific effects of violence, accepting oneself, confronting one's past, etc.) as well as be — spoilers! — fantastically violent at times.

If you have not seen Black Lagoon then I highly suggest you give it a watch. It is a rather exceptional show and dodges many, many clichés common to anime. Any clichés it does not dodge, it tends to parody. In fact, it would not be much of a stretch to classify Black Lagoon as an anime for people who dislike schlock anime. At its core, though, it is a high-octane ode to cheesy, 80s action movies and Hollywood crime dramas. Over the top action, frequent references to pop culture (not just obscure anime culture) and a large cast of genuinely likable characters.

The closest comparable TV-show I can think of is Firefly, in that Black Lagoon is a show about interesting, likable people committing crime and making you laugh along the way. Nearly all of the humor is derived from the characters, situations and witty dialog, without resorting to cheap laughs. The show has a coherent plot that strikes a good balance between humor, action and drama. Its English dub is quite good (though not without flaws) and really adds a lot to some of the characters. Black Lagoon is also notable for featuring an intelligent, realistically-portrayed black male protagonist. On top of all that, the animation is pretty damn good.

It's like Firefly meets Cowboy Bebop, meets The Terminator, meets Indiana Jones, meets Desperado, meets every John Woo movie ever filmed, all on cocaine. Seriously, give it a watch.

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This work of fan fiction is rated M due to graphic violence, blood, gore, death, insanity, sexual themes and people saying fuck a lot.

Enjoy.

. :: The Bloodhound :: .

...

1

...

Calm day at the Lovelace estate. Blue, clear sky stretched in every direction over the mansion. The hot, Venezuelan sun shone down into the courtyard where Young Master sat amid the plants on a thin chair. He rested his elbows on the glass tabletop in front of him, palms interlocked. Roberta watched him through the kitchen window.

Young Master sure had grown up in the past year and a half. His voice had begun to crack, much to his embarrassment, and he'd grown a few inches taller; Roberta remembered how his legs used to swing above the ground from the height of that chair in the courtyard. There was something different about Young Master's smile as well, but she couldn't quite put her finger on what it was.

Roberta gripped the pot handle with her right hand and lifted the pot from its place on the stove. It wobbled in her awkward half grip.

About four months had passed since the Roanapur incident and Roberta still felt ghost fingers attached to her right hand and much of what she saw through her right eye was fuzz and blackness and specks of light. If anything, the Bloodhound of Florencia would be a long time recovering. Maybe she would never recover. Roberta was fine with that possibility.

What Roberta was not fine with was Young Master having a crippled maid with limited depth perception for a bodyguard. So, whenever Fabiola found time to watch over the house, Roberta drove out to the range. She trained herself to fire an assault rifle left-handed and practiced reloading one of her Colts with her right hand. No matter what, she would protect Young Master. From anyone and everyone. Her injuries were no excuse.

Roberta tipped the pot forward and filled Young Master's cup with hot water. Then she filled another cup beside it. These first two cups were both for Young Master. She poured again. Three cups for Young Master. Four cups for Young Master.

She poured once more. One cup for Roberta.

She slid a tea bag into the first cup and stirred. Steam rose. She waited.

Cup one was no good. She dumped it into the sink and focused her attention on cup two, giving the tea bag three and one half stirs this time instead of four. Closer, but still too dark. Cup two swirled down the drain.

Cup three. Young Master liked this flavor of tea to be a very specific shade of light brown. Not too light, not too dark, that was how Young Master preferred it. Roberta knew this because Young Master had once told her the tea tasted magnificent. Not just good, but magnificent.

It had to be perfect. It had to be magnificent. Young Master deserved no less. She couldn't cook a roast or clean a toilet to save her life but by Santa Maria, if there was anything she could do to please Young Master she'd practice that one thing a thousand times over until she got it right.

Three and one half to four stirs, that was the key.

Satisfied, she placed Young Master's cup on a plate, dropped a tea bag into her own cup and started for the door.

Outside, Young Master smiled at her. If the wait annoyed him, it didn't show. "Thank you, Roberta." His smile was worth any number of teacups.

"Would you like some crackers to go with your tea, Young Master?"

"Yes, please, Roberta."

She curtseyed, turned and walked back inside. In the pantry, she found an opened box of Carr's crackers and tried one. They tasted decidedly stale. She opened a new box of crackers and spread them out on a rectangular plate. Then she chopped slices of cheese into a small bowl and placed it beside the crackers.

Through the kitchen window facing into the courtyard, she watched Young Master sip his tea. Judging by his expression, the tea pleased him. Young Master was pleased, so she was pleased, too.

This routine was her life. She tended to her Master's every need as best her clumsy hands and unrefined domestic skills allowed. There was no question Young Master could phrase to which Roberta would not respond, "Yes, Young Master." She would protect him. Guard him. Love him. Her heart beat because Young Master willed it so.

Would you watch a movie with me, Roberta? Yes, Young Master.

Would you sing a song for me, Roberta? Yes, Master.

Would you die for me, Roberta? Yes, Master.

Would you kill for me, Roberta? Yes, Master. He need not even ask.

Would you kiss me, Roberta?

Then it happened again.

The sky darkened and the mansion sped away into oblivion. Roberta found herself standing knee-deep in grass, Sistema in hand. Garcia was there, too. A man who must die stood behind him.

Would you kiss me, Roberta?

Garcia aimed a pistol at her. This was not right. Young Master should not play with guns. Young Master should never even touch a gun. Guns did not suit Young Master.

Bullets lodged in her arm and leg. There was blood all over. Blood dripped from her fingers. Blood dripped from where fingers used to be. Her right eye was burning and saw naught but blood.

Roberta?

Garcia shot the man who must die. This was not right. Young Master should never shoot a man. Young Master should never kill a man. Killing did not suit Young Master.

Garcia shot Roberta. Very well, she would die if Young Master willed it so.

Roberta?

The magic bullet struck Roberta in the stomach. Her fingers clenched with the impact. Her own pistol fired.

Roberta?

Bullet hole in his stomach. This was not right. Roberta should never shoot Young Master.

Roberta?

He pressed his lips to hers. A life's worth of nervousness rushed into her head all at once. Her back straightened, legs froze up. She lost all feeling from the neck down. The man who must die faded into the forest and the blood slipped away and the sun shrank back beyond the horizon until there was nothing but Garcia's lips and his golden hair and a light, fuzzy feeling in her skull.

The lips pulled back and she could think again. She lay in the grass. She must have fallen during the kiss. A soft weight pressed on her stomach.

Would you kiss me, Roberta?

He'd held her by the small of her back like a dancing partner. He lay between her legs, resting on her stomach. Their faces were nearly touching but he didn't seem to mind.

Would you kiss me again, Roberta?

Bullet hole punched in his stomach and his innocence was spilling from it onto her. His body rested small and light on her chest. He was so fragile, young.

Would you kiss me, please, Roberta?

Bullet hole punched in his stomach. His voice said some things. Yes, Master.

Master, you're wounded.

Roberta?

There had been no kiss. Stop the bleeding.

Roberta?

No guns. There was no Bloodhound. Stop the bleeding. Blood everywhere.

Roberta?

The field lurched away and the sunset faded. It was a calm day again. Garcia sat in his chair where she'd left him, framed in the kitchen window. Birds chirped.

Roberta steadied herself against the counter. Her heart was jackhammering into her chest. It always did when she thought back to that field. That moment. Not even her first kills had excited her so.

The memory had been reoccurring as a nightmare for months now. Garcia had kissed her. He'd kissed her and knocked her down and lay between her spread legs and looked her in the eye like it was the most natural thing in the world for a thirteen year-old boy to do.

Other times, other dreams. They'd sit on the couch, out in the courtyard. He would ask for a kiss. Would you kiss me, Roberta? Please. She gave him whatever he wanted. Nightmares, all of them. It was better than stay awake than to dream.

She mustn't think such things about Young Master. She mustn't think such things about Young Master.

Roberta scowled. Trouble sleeping complicated her job enough. Vivid daydreams would do nothing but place Young Master in danger. She needed to stay awake, stay alert, always.

And yet, still.

What should she do if Master asked her? She couldn't kiss him again. She wouldn't.

What would she say, then? Could she bear to tell him no? How would he respond?

Roberta stared into the sink drain. Months had passed and here she was still thinking about the kiss. Master was just a boy. He probably had no idea what he'd done or why it was wrong. She was sick to be thinking about him like this, sick to be wondering if he'd ask to do it again. She'd always been sick, but now she'd stumbled upon a whole other shade of wrong.

Roberta looked over her shoulder, into the dining room. Now was not the time to think of such things. It was such a nice, calm day outside. A few hours past noon and the sun shone true. It was best to enjoy these days. Best to forget as much as she could. There'd be a whole section of Hell waiting for her when the time came.

As she stared out the window of the dining room she noticed a figure crossing the lawn toward the front door.

Who was this? It was a bit early for the lawn crew to arrive. Perhaps they rescheduled. It was such a nice, calm day.

Roberta walked over to the window and peered out of it. Eight men in gray coveralls were crossing the lawn toward the door. Such a nice, calm day. A great day to spend outside. She could hardly blame them.

Twelve men in gray coveralls were stepping out of the front garden and walking toward the mansion. Tramping and whipping their arms and stumbling from out the mess of hydrangeas and azaleas onto the grass. The lead man produced a Beretta from his pocket. One shouldered an AR-15.

Fifteen men. Sixteen. Galil SAR. Two FN FALs. HK UMP.

One of the men turned and locked eyes with Roberta in the window. He stared blankly at her. Roberta stared back. Ugly man. Flat face framed by greasy brown hair and eyes seated in purple-pink, depressed sockets. An old Cadillac trundled along the road behind him.

Such a nice, calm day.

Roberta threw herself to the floor and rolled sidelong away from the window a moment before it exploded into a shower of glass. She scrambled to her feet, diving into the main corridor as the dining room wall began to burst apart in sprays of dust and splintered wood. Two more front windows smashed open. Behind her, the dining table and chairs broke to pieces in a storm of bullets.

Roberta crouched low and waited for the rapid cracking noise from outside to halt. Then she ducked into the kitchen and slid over to the sink. With a metal kitchen cart for cover, she reached up and yanked a drawer free from the counter. It slammed down, spilling a black pistol and clip onto the floor.

A SIG P226. Roberta would have preferred one of her .45s, but they were locked away upstairs. She loaded the clip into the pistol and racked the slide. For a moment, it was like she'd found a piece of herself lying on the floor, a missing limb.

Already, a smile was tugging at her mouth. Her heart raced with excitement and fear. Nothing felt more natural than the heft of a loaded pistol in her grasp. It had been too long.

Voices sounded outside the mansion: "He oído algo."

"Manténganse alejados."

Roberta's eyes snapped to the screen door leading into the courtyard. She'd almost forgotten about Garcia. Her smile faded in an instant.

A breaching round fired from the direction of the front door. Roberta leaned around the kitchen cart and fired three shots through the dining room doorway. The assault rifle fire responded, tearing chunks of wood from the center hallway and kitchen walls.

A stray shot punched a twisted metal hole through the side of the cart and Roberta spun away, sliding to the screen door on her knees. From there she pried open the door and scurried out into the courtyard. Garcia was nowhere to be seen. His chair had been pushed in and the teacups and plates were missing from the glass tabletop.

Roberta set off in a low, crouched run across the courtyard with the P226 held down and out in front of her. She'd scarcely crossed the grass to the table when Garcia's head popped up from behind a low shrub in one of the inner gardens like a gazelle who'd caught sight of a lion skulking in the shade of a cypress. Hiding, as she'd instructed. Bless him.

Roberta beckoned to him, still running.

Garcia pushed his way out the shrubs and nearly tripped over his own feet as he dashed to her. Roberta met him halfway and grabbed him by the hand and led him across the courtyard in a low run to the opposite screen door. There, she threw open the door and shoved him through and followed. Once inside, she again locked hands with Garcia and dragged him out of the lounge and into the hallway where she stopped and leaned against the wall panting and wrapped her broken hand around his back and hugged the shivering boy tight to her chest and kissed him atop his head.

As Roberta's lips pulled back Garcia raised his head from her breast and looked at her. His disheveled bangs hung down over his eyes, dark with tears and sweat and twisting about his forehead. "Roberta," he said.

"It's okay."

"Are you going to fight them?"

Roberta looked to Garcia and then to the lounge. She could hear them in the courtyard, stamping over the grass in their military surplus combat boots. There were twelve shots left in the Sauer and she carried no reloads. "No. We must run," she whispered.

A look of panic flashed across Garcia's face. "Where is Fabiola?"

"Out training. She is safe." Roberta loosened her hold on the boy's back and stooped her head to gaze into his eyes and was reminded of a distant morning when she had gazed at him just so, in a faraway field where sins lay buried in graves marked by upright weapons and dried blood clung to the grass. "Are you ready, Master?"

Garcia sniffled and wiped his eyes on his shirtsleeve. "Yes."

"Okay."

She grabbed Garcia's hand and led him down the hallway with the pistol held out in front of her. They both had one chance; a chance which rested entirely on the hit team being stupid enough to attack from a single direction. Since neither she nor Garcia had been blown away by a second group camped outside this wing of the mansion, it seemed luck was on Roberta's side.

They turned right into a lobby at a junction in the hallway and weaved through the scattered furniture toward the rear door. The room was open, old and dusty and the walls were sheathed in quaint green wallpaper patterned with white flowers. Roberta hoped to work through the rest of the wing in this way until they reached the garage. Behind them, she heard the screen door slide open as men entered the lounge in number.

It was at this precise moment that Garcia stumbled into a small coffee table and knocked the white, decorative lamp perched on its surface to the floor, where it smashed into a hundred pieces.

The shattered plaster bits of the lamp spun around on the floor like tops. There was a silence, a sort of universal double take.

Roberta shouted, "Get down," but the second word was lost in a flurry of assault rifle reports. She pulled Garcia to the floor and rolled over him to try and act as a shield. It wouldn't accomplish much at such close range, against that caliber, but she tried anyway. When the firing stopped she sprung to her feet and pulled Garcia up by his forearm and shoved him through the hanging sawdust toward the rear door. Then she spun around and fired five shots into the splintered lobby wall as she backed away in Garcia's direction.

Roberta turned, sprinted through the lobby and crashed through the rear door into a sort of dining room. As she ran, the hit men blind fired again, full auto. A wide spray of mushrooming metal bits. The lobby tore apart behind her. All around, the walls burst with spits of wood and windows smashed open and china plates shattered and rattled about in their cabinets while she bounded over chairs and low tables from one room to the next with her head held low and eyes up, glaring like a rabid hound.

For a moment, there was an urge to return fire. Roberta wasn't used to running. She couldn't even remember the last time she'd run from a fight. The hit men's barrage had concealed Garcia's escape, though. If she fired back she'd only reveal their location a precious few seconds earlier.

The whole time she expected to come across a blood-stained, gasping Young Master crumpled on the floor with two holes in his back but the sight never came. She wasn't sure what she'd do if it came to that. Kill all of them and then kill herself, she supposed. Wouldn't really matter how she killed them. Wouldn't really matter if she survived. Nothing really mattered without Garcia.

There were seven shots left in the Sauer. She'd bite out all of their throats if she had to.

Two rooms down, she caught sight of Garcia scrambling over a couch before the door swung shut on its hinge. She surged on, bounding over ottomans and futons and ducking through doorways with both forearms held in front of her until she reached the end of the wing and turned into a hallway.

At the end of the hallway Garcia stood wide-eyed in front of the open door to the garage with his hand on the doorknob, looking over his shoulder. When he caught sight of Roberta he came to his senses and disappeared into the doorway.

By now scattered shouts were sounding from the whole wing of the mansion and footsteps clattered in the adjoining rooms as Roberta barreled down the hallway. She grabbed a set of keys from its hook on the wall and slid into the garage and shut the door behind her.

In the darkness she reached out and searched along the wall with her right hand. Her palm and three fingertips rubbed over the scratched paint. No use. She couldn't find a light switch. Abandoning that, she stepped forth into the black void toward what she hoped was the Jeep, her heavy dress shoes clopping on the concrete.

Closer, Roberta could see it. A vague, rectangular outline. Fluorescent pinpricks floating on the dashboard.

Small footsteps pattered and echoed throughout the garage and someone worked the handle to the Jeep's passenger door a few times and stopped. A soft voice whispered from the darkness. "Roberta?"

She thumbed a button on the keys and yellow lights pulsed on the front and back of the Jeep. "Get in the car, Master."

No sound came from the vehicle as it unlocked; she had disabled the feature years ago in preparation for these kinds of situations. Just in case.

This entire secondary garage was constructed inside a small open courtyard in the right wing of the mansion and was painted over to resemble a wall, with a row of shrubs planted in front of the entrance. Constructed under Diego Lovelace's orders at Roberta's request.

Just in case.

Garcia worked the handle again and the passenger door popped open. The Jeep's interior lights switched on. He was shifting into the passenger seat when Roberta reached the Jeep and opened the door and slid into the driver's seat beside him.

"Master, get in the back seat," she hissed softly. A nervous expression overtook Garcia's face. She watched him scoot back out of the Jeep and shut the door. He reentered through the back door and sat down and drew the seatbelt across his chest. Roberta slotted the key into the ignition. "Keep your head down."

"How many of them are there?"

"Master!" Roberta glared at him in the rearview mirror. "Keep your head down. Lie flat on the seat and cover your head with your hands and stay that way. Do you understand?"

Young Master did as he was told. Roberta fastened her own seatbelt and adjusted the rearview mirror to focus on Garcia. He lay as she had instructed, shivering, face down on the back row of seats. One brown eye stared at her from beneath his golden locks. "Here we go, Young Master."

He shifted in the back seat. "Roberta?"

"Yes?"

"I love you."

Roberta froze. She stared at him in the mirror.

What did he just say?

Garcia shut his eyes and clamped his hands tight over the back of his head. He whimpered softly into the fabric seat covering.

Roberta heard shouts from inside the mansion, footsteps stomping toward the garage door. She forced Garcia's words out of her head and exhaled. Never mind it. Any of it. He had said nothing.

Roberta squeezed a clicker on the Jeep's keychain. At the same time, she turned the key in the ignition. The garage door groaned and began to lift open as the Jeep sputtered to life. Sunlight flooded into the garage. She shifted into drive.

Roberta gunned the engine and sent the Jeep crashing through the bottom crossbar of the garage door, tearing through a low line of bushes and into the courtyard where its tires spun for grip on the mulch and grass. They caught, and the Jeep roared out onto the lawn. Roberta fought to keep the steering wheel under control as she pressed the gas pedal to the floor.

They were halfway to the street when the first few bullets slammed into the car. One struck the rear window with a dull thud. Others rattled into the trunk and side doors. Roberta glanced back over her shoulder and saw white cracks spiraling outward from the point of impact in the rear window's bullet-resistant glass.

"Stay down!" As she shouted, a second wave of bullets tore into the car. They bit and thumped into the Kevlar-lined side doors and trunk and rattled the frame of the Jeep like it was being pelted with heavy rocks. One round snuck through the corner of the trunk and tore through the back seat and embedded itself in the passenger seatbelt guard.

At last, the Jeep bounced off the curb and onto the street. Roberta hit the brakes and swung the wheel to the right, throwing herself against the window. Then she gunned it. There was a screech and great cloud of smoke spun up behind the car as it took off down the road. Roberta turned her head to the passenger side window and looked back at the mansion. Men were pouring out of the open door, leveling their rifles, firing. Muzzle flashes sparked in shattered windows all along the right wing.

Bullets impacted the broad half of the car. The passenger window withstood two hits and cracked into a spider web of twirling white lines. A hole burst open in the window and Roberta felt something whiz past her cheek and punch into the driver side window. Garcia screamed. The Jeep's engine roared and they tore away from the mansion, accelerating.

Further down the street, they passed into some tree cover wherein the sound of gunfire died and bullets stopped punching into the car. The calm that followed was almost eerie. No sound but the rumble of the engine. Roberta glanced around the Jeep. Every window save the windshield was snow white, coated with thick lightning-shaped cracks and swirls of white lines flowing from chunky impact marks. Zero visibility.

Young Master cowered in the back seat, his hands still on his head. His breath came on heavy and labored.

Roberta watched him in the rearview mirror. "You may sit up now, Master."

Young Master seemed to stare at the seat cover beneath him, like he could see down through it and through the suspension and out the bottom of the Jeep and into the ground and all the way down through the earth and out the other side. He didn't respond.

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..

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Roberta drove out into the back roads and followed them through the woods to the closest town, keeping away from the waterline. About forty-five minutes in, one of the Jeep's run-flat tires began to fail and the going was tough from that point onward. The roads were uneven and rocky and the Jeep's frame was lurching more and more into every turn. When she neared the town she pulled the battered Jeep off the road and ran it softly into a tree at the edge of the woods. She turned the key in the ignition and unbuckled her seatbelt and twisted in her seat to check on Young Master. He sat in the back side seat, staring at his hands as they lay idle in his lap.

"Young Master," she said. He didn't react. He just rocked gently in his seat. Roberta leaned toward him and balanced between the front two seats and reached out with her left hand and ran her fingers along the boy's downturned cheek. Such a fragile thing.

He looked up at Roberta and her hand recoiled. His hollow eyes turned to the hand and he stared at it like he thought it was some strange bird fluttering too close to his head. Then he looked back down to his lap.

Roberta withdrew her hand and slid back into the driver's seat. She reached over into the passenger side floor space and felt around for the Sauer until she found it lying in the near corner. She grabbed the pistol by its slide and brought it up and passed it to her left hand and flicked the decocking lever down with her index finger. Then she tucked the pistol into a pocket beneath her apron.

Roberta sat staring at the hole in the passenger side window and thought things over. After a while, she leaned across the passenger seat and popped open the glove compartment. A flashlight and a few maps bound by rubber bands rolled out onto the seat. Roberta reached into the compartment and pulled out a screwdriver and a pair of wire cutters and slid them into her pocket next to the Sauer. Then she reached back in and removed a first aid kit and a flare gun and a bottle of water and set them down on the passenger seat.

She broke open the first aid kit and pocketed a few band-aids and a roll of medical tape. None of the maps contained anything she did not already know by heart, so she tossed them. Seeing no use for the flare gun, she grasped the bottle of water in her weak hand and swung the driver's door open and stepped out of the car.

Outside, the shadows ran long and dark from the bases of the trees and the western sky burned a fiery orange. Roberta blinked. How long had she been driving?

Roberta smoothed the ruffles out of her apron and walked around to the other side of the car and opened the door. Then she reached in and unfastened Garcia's seatbelt and turned his upper body to face her and held him by the shoulders as she spoke.

"Master, we must leave."

He stared blankly at her.

"Young Master."

No response.

She cupped his cheek in her gloved hand. "Garcia, please."

Slowly, he brought his quivering hand up to hers and blinked a few times. "Roberta?" He swiveled his head and glanced around the Jeep.

"Yes, Master, it's me. You're safe. Come now, down." She locked hands with him and helped him down from the seat and steadied him.

Garcia stood outside the car looking around like a child who'd lost his mother. He seemed at first bewildered, then scared, as he wrapped his arms about himself. "Where are we?"

Roberta peered through the trees. She could see buildings standing a ways off, beyond the woods. "That's not important, Master. For now, you must follow me. Do you understand?"

He sniffled. "Alright."

Roberta turned and started for the woods. When Garcia made no move to follow, she looked back over her shoulder. He still stood beside the car with his arms crossed, staring at her. "Master?" She walked back to him and crouched down to his level. "What's wrong?"

His eyes were wide open, pupils dilated. "I don't know. It's just – just. I'm —"

"Afraid?"

He shook his head. "I don't know."

"Would you like to hold my hand, then? Would that make you feel better?"

"I don't know. Yes."

"Okay."

She led him by hand through the loose wood, batting plants aside with her gloved hand and stepping over twisting vines and eventually they came upon a field of reed bordering the town. They crept through the field to a wooden fence and followed the fence east until it swung inward. From there they followed the road deeper into town.

After a few minutes walking, Roberta spotted a car. A dark red, nondescript sedan, parked between two small houses with its passenger side window rolled halfway down. There was no one else around in the neighborhood. She took Garcia's hand and led him across the street to the car and asked him to keep watch.

"Okay," he said.

Roberta walked over to the passenger side of the car and thrust her arm into the window and hooked her forearm down and unlocked the door. She stepped back and opened the door and climbed inside and crawled into the driver's seat. From there, she glanced up at Garcia. He stood in front of the car's hood, staring off into space.

Roberta fished the screwdriver out of her pocket and extracted two pairs of screws from the steering column and tossed them aside. She pried open the steering column and peered at the set of wires she had revealed. Satisfied, she removed the wire cutters from her pocket and pinched the power wires between her left index finger and thumb and snipped them both in half. Then she stripped the wires and twisted the heads together.

Afterward, she gathered up the starter wires between the fingers of her left hand and cut them one at a time. She stripped the wires and dropped the wire cutters on the floor and grabbed one starter wire with her right hand. Slowly, she brought the two wire ends together. The car's engine choked and coughed and settled into a low rumble. To clean up, she ripped off pieces of medical tape and taped the starter wires to the underside of the steering column.

Roberta sat up and saw Young Master standing where she'd left him, a questioning look on his face. She beckoned to him. He shuffled over to the back door of the sedan and climbed in and waited. She adjusted the rearview mirror to focus on him. "Buckle your seatbelt, Young Master."

.

..

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They rode out of the town in silence.

The car's radio was broken, the windshield wipers didn't work and one headlight flickered on and off, but it had four good wheels and ran well enough. This was her kind of car. This was how she lived, how she'd always lived. She scavenged and hunted and stole. She drove on. She survived. She didn't think, didn't ask questions, not while Garcia's life was on the line.

The road stretched out cool and black ahead of her. Roberta exhaled for what felt like the first time since she started the Jeep. She figured it was a good idea to talk to Young Master, to comfort him, but as she glanced in the rearview mirror she found that he'd fallen asleep. Well, then. One problem solved.

Would you kiss me, Roberta?

And dozens more to go.

Roberta tightened her grip on the steering wheel and stared down the highway. She missed Garcia's voice already, missed his kind smile. It was too quiet. Nothing but the rush of air on the windshield and the rumbling engine. She hated silence.

A voice croaked from the passenger side: "The problem with silence is that you've no one to blame but yourself."

Roberta glanced sidelong at him, uninterested. The man looked a lot less handsome than she remembered. "What happened to you, Master?"

"Oh, you mean this?" Diego yanked a piece of shrapnel from his upper cheek and gazed at it, scratching his chin. His fingers were covered in blood and the top of his skull was charred black and the left half of his lower lip was missing. Roberta could barely recognize him through all the blood. "Not sure. I think it had something to do with that Roanapur business a few months back."

Well, at least she'd have some company.

Man, was this site always a formatting nightmare?

Reviews, questions, comments appreciated.