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Author's Note: Wait, what? Who are these people? What the hell is happening here? For a little more on Maire, you might want to read Martin's Masterpiece, for a little more of the plot, skim Waiting Game, this is it's follow-up
Nifty Fact for the Day: Cigarette loads look like little pieces of tobacco that you put in smokes, they blow up when lit.

o(1)o

Connor sighed and ran a hand through his hair looking in the refrigerator, trying to find something suitable to eat. There was a box of week old pizza, half of a questionable looking hamburger and something that once might have been Mexican, but now was merely green and fuzzy; there was nothing, however, that seemed particularly appetizing.

We should really go shopping sometime soon. He thought, finally plucking a soggy piece of pizza from the box.

Shooting a quick glance to the couch, where his twin dozed, lulled to sleep by the sound of the television, he slipped over and surreptitiously reached toward the remote control, only to have his hand slapped away.

"I'm watchin' that." Murphy protested without opening his eyes. "Leave it alone."

"Ye were fast a-fuckin'-sleep." Connor scoffed. "I could've thrown the fuckin' thing out of the window and tossed yer arse out after it and ye still wouldn't have noticed."

"That doesn't change that I'm still fuckin' watchin' it."

Rolling his eyes heavenward, Connor refused to give in; if he had to watch to one more over-edited, piss-poor, low budget, daytime movie, he was going to lose his fucking mind. "What program was just on then?"

Murphy frowned, sighing as he shifted slightly, trying to get comfortable again. "I don't fuckin' know."

"That's because you were asleep, ye fuck, now let me change the fuckin' station."

Shrugging his shoulders and reaching up to rub his neck, Murphy sighed. "Fine have your fuckin' station."

Idly flipping through the channels, Connor found a decent action movie and Murphy nodded his appreciation.

"That's better."

"I fuckin' told ye didn't I?"

Murphy's eyes slipped closed and Connor gave him a fond glance, glad that his brother seemed to be adjusting.

When they had first begun their journey, Connor had bet that he and Murphy only lasted a couple of days cooped up in the car before they were at each other's throats. But Murphy had surprised him. Instead of filling the silences that fell with endless chatter and juvenile shenanigans, his brother seemed content to listen to the radio, gazing thoughtfully out the window and fidgeting quietly with a cigarette, barely speaking.

For the entire first day, Connor had been relieved that Murphy was behaving himself, saving him from the injurious fate of playing the license plate game, and the pranks that his twin loved to pull when he was bored.

After that, he began to worry.

During their second day on the road, he had watched Murphy staring quietly at the scenery slipping by, worrying the nail of his thumb between his teeth, his entire body screaming to Connor that something was amiss. Connor had tapped two cigarettes from his pack, lighting them both in a practiced gesture and offering one toward his twin.

"Are ye all right, Murph?"

"Aye," Murphy had responded, not looking away from the window and not noticing the offered cigarette. "Fine."

"Ye've been mightily quiet as of late. What's on your mind?"

Murphy had turned to look at him, his heart in his eyes, and Connor had given his brother a sympathetic smile as he suddenly knew exactly what Murphy was thinking about, hearing it as clearly as if his twin had spoken aloud.

Danae.

Reaching up, he had placed a hand on the back of Murphy's neck, squeezing gently. He didn't need to speak, just as his twin hadn't, both using the uncanny bond they shared instead.

Murphy leaned into his touch slightly, sighing. "I miss her so fuckin' much."

"I know ye do." The pain in Murphy's voice had made Connor's chest ache, he didn't like seeing his twin this way.

"We'll see her again, Murph, I promise. C'mon now and have a smoke with me, everything will be all right."

"If it's meant to be then it'll be, aye?" Murphy had said, taking the cigarette at last and taking a long drag from it.

"Who the fuck told ye that?" Connor had asked, surprised. Something so insightful coming out of his brother's mouth was virtually unheard of.

"Some blue-haired lesbian, back before we left."

Chuckling as he took a drag of his own cigarette, Connor gave his brother's neck another affectionate pat before moving to muss his hair. "Ye're fuckin' nuts, Murph, have I told ye that lately?"

"But its right, isn't it?"

"Aye, it's right, if ye and Danae are meant ta be than ye'll be."

Murphy had perked up after that, humming softly with the radio and nattering on to Connor, who was unsurprisingly relieved to hear his twin's voice. But occasionally, Connor had still caught him gazing pensively out of the car window.

It wasn't until the third day that Connor knew, without a doubt, that his brother was feeling better.

"Conn?" Murphy's voice had broken through the road hypnosis and into his thoughts. Looking, he saw his twin lighting two cigarettes, smiling around them. "Ye might want to pay attention ta the road." Murphy had said conversationally.

"Christ!" Connor had jerked the wheel, bringing the battered Ford back to the proper lane. "Why didn't ye fuckin' say something?"

"I just fuckin' did, didn't I?" Murphy had rolled his eyes, offering Connor a cigarette.

Taking the fag from his brother's fingers and inhaling a gratifying lungful of smoke, Connor barely had time to catch a glimpse of his twin reaching for the steering wheel before his cigarette had exploded.

"Ye fuck!" Connor had tossed the ruined smoke out of the window and wiped at the black he knew was coating his face. "Where in Christ's fuckin' name did ye get fuckin' cigarette loads?"

Whooping with laughter, Murphy had shaken his head, carefully keeping the car on the road from the passenger seat, while Connor sputtered and swore.

"Ye should see yer fuckin' face!" His twin had hooted. "Ye look like a fuckin' cartoon!"

Swatting Murphy's hands away from the wheel, Connor had regained control of the car, calling his brother every detestable name he could think of, much to Murphy's amusement. Adding insult to injury, he'd then had to walk into the motel they had chosen for the night and rent a room, looking like his ACME stick of fucking dynamite had malfunctioned.

Despite his irritation with his twin's prank, Connor had felt a tiny twinge of relief seeing the sparkle in Murphy's eyes. That sparkle meant that they would be all right, more importantly, that Murphy would be all right.

Now, several hundred miles, one church, and a shit apartment later, Connor watched his twin stretch out on the couch, already starting to drift back to sleep. Glancing at the soggy pizza in his hand, he couldn't stop a wicked grin from spreading across his face.

Payback time.

His aim as true as it was with a gun, Connor lobbed the drooping slice at his twin, chuckling as it smacked him squarely in the face. Murphy yelped, bolting upright, tomato sauce smearing his features and spattering his hair, a single slice of pepperoni sticking stubbornly to his forehead.

"Ye fuck!" he gasped, swiping at the mess sliding down his cheeks and neck. "That's fuckin' cold!"

Connor barely heard his brother's heated insults, now doubled over with laughter. Revenge was a brilliant thing, especially served cold straight from the refrigerator.

"Ye should see yer fuckin' face!" he whooped, laughing all the harder when Murphy launched himself off of the couch, tackling him to the floor and mashing the remains of the pizza into his hair.

o()o

Maire loved the city at night. The rushing sound of traffic and below that, the rumble of the subway, the smell of greasy diners cooking their last meal of the workday, the array of lights and signs, all lit up in neon splendor, it was an ever-changing work of art.

She was out later than she should have been, especially in this part of town, but the day had been warm and the spring lighting couldn't have been more perfect.

Carefully juggling a camera in one hand and balancing Sasha on her hip with the other, she decided that it was time to head home. Sasha was a filthy mess from her adventures at the park and she needed a bath before going to bed, even though it was well past her young daughter's bedtime.

"Chee!" Sasha announced, waving her disposable camera and pointing a round finger at her mother.

Maire beamed her widest grin at her baby and a moment later was blinded by the disposable's flash. The camera was one of Sasha's favorite things, and had been since she was old enough to push the button, one thing she had inherited from her mother.

Most of the time Maire developed pictures of the floor or of her daughter's thumbs and shoes, but occasionally she discovered some amazing shots that Sasha had taken, especially of her big brother whom Maire ached for more than any one person should.

Plus, it allowed her to take Maire own photos in peace.

Pausing on the bridge that led to their neighborhood, Maire stared, captivated by the full moon that was rising over the water. "Wow," she whispered. "Do you see that, baby?"

A wide smile and a spit bubble in her ear told her that her daughter was as impressed with the view as she was.

Carefully setting Sasha on her feet and unsuccessfully trying to smooth the unruly mess of blond, Maire lifted her camera, deftly centering the image.

"You take a couple of pictures with Mamma, okay?"

The disposable's flash and Sasha's giggle answered her and Maire smiled down at her daughter. Sometimes, when Sasha looked up at her just so, Maire swore that she could see Martin beside his sister, smiling an identical smile.

Her masterpieces.

The shot was ideal and so was the lighting; the moon was fat and flawlessly white, casting a shimmering reflection over the fathomless depths of water. This was going to be a picture worthy of a frame, she was certain.

Taking several shots of the view, already making plans for mats and frames, Maire let the camera hang around her neck and reached out for Sasha.

And found nothing.

Instantly her heart picked up it's pace, pounding harder against her ribs as she glanced around looking for the chubby silhouette that would identify her daughter.

"Baby?" she called. "Sasha?"

From several feet down the bridge there was the flash of a camera and an unmistakable giggle.

"Sasha!" Maire called again, heading toward where she had seen the flash.

Sasha was there, halfway back down the bridge, happily waving her camera and Maire breathed a sigh of relief, feeling her stomach work its way back up from her shoes and wondered if she was the single most awful mother in the world for letting her daughter wander off alone in the dark.

"Mah!" Sasha squealed, snapping another picture.

"Come on, Baby." Maire said, extending her hand. "Time to go home."

"Omh?" Sasha inquired, raising the camera again.

The disposable flashed and Maire gasped as it illuminated a group of men several feet away on the bridge. There were at least four of them, all gathered around a fifth who was on his knees.

" y vertiendo con almas estará siempre. In Nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti."

Their words were carried on the wind, meaningless yet full of significance. Another flash from Sasha's camera accompanied a sound that was not unlike a champagne bottle being uncorked and all the men turned as one to look at her.

All except for the fifth man, who was now lying in a pool of gore at the feet of the others.

"Hey!" one of the men shouted, reaching into his jacket.

"Oh my God." The words came out in a rush of fear and adrenaline as she swept Sasha into her arms, turning and running away from the grisly scene as fast as she could.

She heard another champagne bottle pop and felt the wind of something whizzing past her ear.

Oh god, oh god, oh god, oh god . . .

Another gallon of adrenaline dumped itself into her veins and she crushed Sasha to her chest, shielding her daughter with her own body as best she could, and redoubling her pace.

They were shooting at her. Oh dear God, they were shooting at her and the baby.

They were right behind her and another bullet went speeding by. Maire knew she should be screaming for help, but all of her oxygen was focused solely on keeping her upright and moving. She couldn't stop running; if she stopped, they would kill her just like they had killed that man. They would kill her and then they would murder her daughter.

Feet pounding across the bridge, Sasha clinging to her neck, now screaming as she sensed her mother's alarm, Maire choked out sob. Her lungs were on fire and the sharp stabbing pain in her side reminded her just how long it had been since she had run. But she couldn't stop, God help her, she couldn't stop.

"Chocha!" one yelled from directly behind her, and she could hear the rasp in his voice, a wheezing pant that only out of shape men trying to jog could seem to manage.

Sprinting off the bridge, Maire looked around desperately for someone who could help her but the streets were empty. Where in the hell was everybody? There were hundreds of thousands of people living in this city, where were they when she needed them?

Somebody help us, please help us, Oh god, someone please, help us.

Maire gasped for breath, sobbing as she ran. She was almost there, almost home, almost safe.

She made it to her front entry a hairsbreadth before her pursuers slamming the door behind her and wrenching the locks into place as angry pounding echoed throughout her tiny apartment. They were shouting at her in a mixture of English and what almost had to be Spanish, their tone making her grateful that she couldn't understand most of what they were yelling.

"Under the bed, baby." She gasped, setting Sasha on the floor and forcing her voice to at least resemble steady. "Like when we play hide and seek. Don't come out until Mamma comes to get you."

A particularly hard blow made her doorframe shudder and Maire heard the door next to hers open.

No, John. No, no, no, go back inside. They'll kill you.

"What the hell is going on out here?" John's gruff voice cut through the angry yells almost as efficiently as the loud noise of a shotgun being cocked. The only insurance policy I'll ever need, he had told her once.

"You boys get on out of here, now and leave her alone."

The incensed sound of John's voice jolted Maire from her stupor, what in God's name was she doing? Waiting for them to break down her door? Waiting for them to kill John and then kick in the door and kill her?

Scrabbling across the kitchen floor, she fumbled for the phone, her fingers thick and clumsy from too much adrenaline and not enough oxygen. Outside she could hear more yelling, but couldn't tell what was happening. After an eternity of waiting, listening frantically to the seeminly endless rings on the other line, the most perfect sound in the world came across the receiver.

"911, please state the nature of your emergency . . ."

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