In between the roar of the sirens, echoing and screaming , one patrol car after another speeding into the mayhem; Allison tasted the blood of a man she barely met. She shot that man in the face. The pistol long discarded in the Trent river, polished of her finger prints. Allison routinely tapped her pocket to check that the lethal missiles remained safe. A limp in her casual stride hinted in the oncoming of a new, sore muscle shortly after repair. The air in the night of the city remained thick to breathe in or some thing. A hard knot rolled in her throat as she attempted to swallow hard, tapped her pocket and counted.
The girl slowed down coming to a stop . A mild burning rose from her calves into the center of her spine. Allison stopped at the intersection of Angelus Oaks under a street light at 3 a.m. Smoking a slow-burning cigarette in the shallow light, a momentary oasis of chemical calm with nothing but trouble and turmoil on either side. Directly ahead — the hotel for her kind. After another drag, looking back into the distance of the silent screams of the police lights.
Another body in a pool of their own blood. Another one — this was a woman she had never met. Discarding the smoke in the distance a momentary firefly dying in the night. Only a few more blocks for a place — a safe haven for her kind.