"A man who won't die for something is not fit to live."
- Martin Luther King, Jr.
Everyone thinks that when their time comes, if it ever did, they'll know exactly what to do.
Whatever it is, whatever you think you're prepared for, you have to know that you're not. You can't be prepared to watch a loved one die, you can't be prepared to do something that fucks you up so badly that you don't even know who you are anymore. You can only cross your fingers and hope that it all works out in the end.
See, I couldn't have been prepared to wake up in Louis Tomlinson's bed, a sticky-note stuck to my forehead telling me that he was so sorry and he had to go to the studio for recording, that I could let myself out through the back door, just post the keys - which were somehow curled into my tightly clenched fist - through the letterbox. I couldn't have been prepared for the sight of his cheerful, scruffy handwriting and the little smiley face added onto the end, just like he always used to.
You can never be prepared.
Taking a deep breath and shoving the crumpled note into my pocket, I slide out from under the sheets. The house is silent apart from the sound of my own heart pounding in my ears and the faint hum of the plumming, only my soft footsteps on the plush carpets and squeaky clean floors.
The thing is, everything is so Louis. There's pictures of his sisters all over the walls and empty mugs left absolutely everywhere, leaving trails of tea rings that dot each work surface. A stack of awards sit on a glass shelf, gold and silver piling up and up until they're all on the brink of falling off, precariously balancing on the edge. I allow myself a small smile before unlocking the back door, debating whether I should keep the keys for future purposes or not. I might need them one day.
I post them through the letterbox, anyway.
+
When I get back to the flat, Jack is busy slipping a knife into his boots, pocketing another and shouldering his rucksack that's usually filled with various goodies. He likes to travel heavy, Jack does. Never leaves the house without his pistol, always has at least two different guns hidden away about on his person. It's a wonder he hasn't been caught by the police already.
"Who've you got this time?" I ask as I place my set of keys on one of the hooks.
Jack looks up, grinning easily. "Couple of gang members that saw something they shouldn't, started making thick threats around the company. Figure they've got what it takes to sign themselves up."
I snort. "Idiots."
"Yeah. We thought disposing of them would be quicker." He reaches for one last knife, before pausing to look at me. "You wanna come?"
I shouldn't. I really, honestly shouldn't. I've got bigger assignments, research to do, practise, planning. Planning to kill the boy you used to love, a tiny voice inside my head says, but I push it away, back into the dusty boxes of cobwebbed memories and rainy days where we curled up in blankets and forgot about the world.
"Sure."
Jack smiles again and checks his watch. "Cool. Grab a gun, then."
I slide open the drawer underneath the sink, pulling off the simple white linen that covers our collection of hand guns. I almost reach for my Glock, my old friend that I've had for nearly a year now, yet decide against it and grab one of Jack's instead.
He raises an eyebrow when he sees my choice. "Not the Glock?"
I shrug. "Didn't feel like it."
The boy stays silent for another moment, staring at me thoughtfully, before shrugging himself. "Whatever. Let's go, yeah?"
+
The streets are dark as we walk, lit up by streetlamps. We avoid the light of them and stay in the shadows, our black clothes blending in easily. It's unnerving, how easy it is to simply just disappear. To think that if I died, no one would notice. Jack would, yeah, but he'd get over it. Maybe Emily would be a little sad. But anyone else? I don't think they'd even realise.
It's not difficult to find the guys we're looking for. They must be fighting over something, arguing loudly in the middle of the street. Me and Jack crouch down behind the corner.
"How many are there?" I whisper.
Jack cocks his head, listening carefully. The voices get louder. "I reckon three. Maybe four."
"Are we killing all of them?"
"Maybe. Make it look like an accident, though. That way we can make it look like it was another gang. These guys have a history of rivalry." He says, pulling his hood up. "You ready?"
I slide my knife out from under my sleeve and let it dance on my fingertips, twirling. "You bet." And then we step out from under the shadows, hoods pulled up and hands in our pockets. There's actually five of them, the main two we're looking for staring at each other, snarling. Two of the others have taken sides, standing protectively at their chosen leader's side. The third kid, a scrawny one with a grey hoodie is wavering as he watches the exchange.
The unsure one sees us first, eyes widening and shuffling away from the argument like he's worried he'll get into trouble. I smile at him, all teeth.
"Is there a problem, boys?" Jack asks.
One of the ones we're supposed to be taking care of leers at us. "Are you going to make yourselves a problem?" He snarls. He cracks his knuckles as he does it, the muscles in his arms rippling. I raise an eyebrow.
"Not sure." I say slowly, pretending to deliberate, taking the knife out and letting it dangle loosely from my fingertips. "Will we make ourselves a problem?" I ask Jack. He shrugs, smirking a little.
"Maybe we will."
A particularly tattooed one steps forward. "Oh really? Well -" He cuts off, eyes catching the knife in my hand, narrowing them before laughing, cold and hard. "I hope you know how to use that knife, girly." He sneers.
Jacks drags the toe of his trainer across the floor, and I get a better grip on the knife handle. That's the signal, kill them now, he's saying.
Kill him.
There's a moment of silence where both sides are left staring at each other, before I take the knife and throw it, straight at Tattoos. It buries itself in the side of his throat, deep into his flesh. His eyes widen and he pulls it out, blood spurting everywhere.
Idiot.
The two ringleaders' faces drain of blood, paling under the lamplight. Jack pulls out his gun, and everything seems to click into place for them. "Get the others!" He yells as he trips one of the leading two up, firing a bullet at the other. The guy twists away just as he does, slicing across the top of his shoulder, tearing at his skin. Red flowers through the material of his shirt, and he stares at his hand in horror when it comes away bloody.
I reach out to grasp one of other the sidekicks' hoodie, taking it by the collar and kneeing him in the balls, hard. He curls in on himself, groaning, and I punch him in the nose one last time before throwing him to the side.
"Don't let the scrawny one get away," Jack tells me. He's pulling out his rifle now, firing into the back of the escaping ringleader, just two shots, bang bang, before he drops to the floor, bloody holes gaping through the fabric. Scrawny is trying desperately to sneak away from the carnage, backing away slowly, fading back into the dark.
I raise the gun. "You take one step further and I'll blow your brains out."
There's a pained cry from behind me, and it takes all my nerve not to turn round and help Jack. The scrawny kid freezes like a rabbit caught in the lamplight. Eyes wide, mouth hanging open. Something about it is familiar, and old memory drifting up from the past.
"What's your name?" I ask.
"Nathan," He whispers.
"Listen here, Nathan," I say, stepping forward so the barrel of the gun is half a metre away from his forehead. He swallows, throat working. "You're going to run. You're going to run to the other side of town and you're going to ring the police."
Nathan's eyes catch mine. They're a light shade of grey, bright and fearful.
"And you're going to tell them that you, and your little friends," I continue, gesturing behind me. "Were ambushed. You've got enemies, other gangs, am I right?"
He nods slowly.
"Okay. So you're going to tell the cops that it was this gang, these other guys, that killed them."
The scrawny kid's face drops, and he shakes his head desperately. Again, the action seem familiar, like I know him. "No - I can't, they'll find me, kill me, my family-" Nathan sputters as he steps backwards a little, back hitting the lamppost with a thud.
"Police protection. They won't get you."
"But-"
"You don't tell the police exactly that, and we'll kill you instead. You understand?"
Nathan blinks. And then it hits me, why he seems familiar. Back when I was Chloe, I had a younger brother. Not really my brother, I discovered later, but still, back then he was my brother and he was called Lewis.
He had grey eyes, almost the exact same shade Nathan's.
"Why are you doing this?" Nathan croaks.
"I -" My voice fails me, because it's Lewis. My younger brother, he's gone, my family's gone, they're all gone, everybody's gone. "I have to."
"I'll do it, just let me go, please -"
I lower my gun, clenching it tightly. "Go."
He doesn't hesitate to leg it back down the street, stumbling over shaky legs as he looks back over his shoulder at us, grey eyes wide and haunting. It only a takes a few moments before he's gone, faded back into the black of the night. I watch him go silently.
There's a sickening quelch behind me that brings me back to my senses, and a muffled whimper that comes along with it. Jack grimaces, wiping the blood on his blade on the guy's jacket whilst he falls to the floor, and steps over the body as a crimson patch begins to pool around it. "Did we get them all?" He asks, sheathing the knife with a clunk.
"I let the little one go," I say and nudge one of the bodies with my foot.
Jack looks up, surprised. "You did? Why?"
I shrug. "For cover."
Neither of us mention that we don't need cover, that the Agency can get us out of anything if need be. Jack just nods once, still watching me suspicously like he's thinks I'm crazy. "Are you okay, though?" He asks.
No, I saw Louis and I remembered, Jack, I remember it all and I remember him and I remember Lewis and I remember being happy and I think that was him just then and it hurts, hurts a lot -
"I'm fine."
The body - or not actually a body, as it appears - at my feet moves then, slightly rolls over onto his front before whimpering quietly. I sigh, pulling my pistol out.
There's no shaking as I pull the trigger this time.
It goes straight through the guy's head, blood splattering all over the grainy pavement, and I look up, shoving the gun back into my pocket. "Let's get out of here. There's no way no one heard those gunshots." I say, ignoring the weird look Jack is giving me - still, would you please just give it up - and pulling my hood back up again.
"Should have brought your Glock, after all." He comments as we slink back into the shadows. "You always finish them off like that, don't you?"
"I guess," I mutter.
"Straight through the head." Jack mimes shooting himself, fingers making a gun and pressing them to his forehead, little gunshot sounds like a child.
"So?"
He shrugs. "I don't know. It's kind of cool, y'know? Like, it's your mark. Your way of saying 'Brooke Phoenix was here', like a tag."
I stare at him. He thinks it's cool, fucking hell. Has he forgotten that these are real people here, not just graffitied walls? That this isn't a game, these are lives that we're taking just to save our own? Fuck, what is he talking about?
Jack flinches under my gaze. "What?"
Shaking my head, I turn back around, hopping over the gate and into the field that surrounds the town. The sound of sirens follow us. Wailing, cutting through the night air like a knife, through the thump of a house party going on nearby and the sound of cars zooming by, through the lives of ordinary people, unaware that two murderers are slipping through their fingers like water.
"Brooke?" Jack asks.
"What?"
"What happened to your forehead?"
I wince. "Nothing," I lie, before moving away from the side of the field, my feet picking up into a run. I run until I can't breathe anymore, until my chest is tightening like a vice around me, and I don't stop. The car is in the next town over, and it wouldn't take too long to reach at a fast walk, but -
It's like there's more than just bodies and police cars behind me. There's memories and blood and broken lives, torn apart by teenagers like us. There's families ripped up, cold graves and silent tears. There's a boy I remember who's not my brother anymore, like I'm not his sister any longer, like we've lost ourselves.There's everything bad and wrong, and I know that no matter how hard I run, I'll just be running into something else.
But I don't stop.