Sheltered Lives

As ever he is awake.

He doesn't need sleep, just as it was before, only periods of rest to recharge his batteries, as his Willow is fond of saying.

His Willow, his Lady. For once to be his, without restrictions, without interference, as it always should have been. Would have been, if he hadn't been playing silly little hide-and-seek games with himself.

But now the time has come to remember again, for things to be the way they were at the beginning.

Briefly, he wonders to himself if perhaps it's the beginning of the end...the final iteration before they take the last plunge together.

If it is, in truth, he looks forward to it. This has been a long, long time coming, and in truth he's simply thankful to have found her, for the circle to complete itself.

In the end, the universe wastes nothing. All things must change.

That day will be many years in the future, naught but an eyeblink in the overall design.

In truth, it doesn't matter. His entire existence has been about the moment, always with an eye to the future but never at the expense of living.

Such as the Shelter. Looking around from the bed he and Avy share, he fancies he can see through the walls - not that he can, of course. X-ray vision would be a little too cliche, and it'd take away some of the unexpected delight of being surprised by some poor fool thinking a knife or gun might be the solution to the lean Irishman.

But his hearing is more than surpassingly excellent, so much so that he can pick out individual footsteps, even heartbeats. And he knows the theater, its layout and acoustics, well enough that he knows where everything - and everyone - is within the theater itself, and can even pick out things well outside the grounds.

Like the sound of a stealthy footstep.

The wards aren't tripped, and he knows the footsteps of everyone in the theater. Not the twins, who are sleeping a few rooms down. Not Sky, who he can't hear thanks to her soundproofed room, and thus knows it's not her. Not Avy, fast asleep at his side.

More curious than concerned, he moves gently away from her, only to look back and find her piercing green eyes upon him, already alert, tense. "Wha' is i', luv?"

He gives her a smile, shaking his head as he pulls on a pair of pants. "Ye worry too much, darlin'."

She glares at him, but there's no force behind it, no real strength. "Ye cannae blame me, ye know...Ah know wha' i's like t'be on th' inside, th' way they work."

He moves in close to her, settling in to curl against her for a moment with a smile that is both tender, and a little scary in its intensity, made greater by the utter conviction in his voice. "They'll nae dare t'come here an' face me, darlin'. An' if they do, they'll regre' it."

Leaning in closer, he puts his fingers under her chin, tilting her head up to press his lips soft and tender, lingeringly to hers. He can feel the hunger in hers as her arms begin to come up to lace around his neck, and he raises his own hands to stop them gently, looking into her eyes with that rogue's grin. "Ah wan' ye t'hold ontae tha' though' fer me, luv." With a wink and a swift peck to her lips, he's gone. little more than the barest streak of a blur.

He's up on the roof, looking over the street below, when he hears her grumble out easily loud enough for him to hear. "Och, ye know Ah hate i' when ye do tha'."

He chuckles to himself, looking down into the shadows. He can hear soft breathing, a heartbeat easily now the walls aren't in the way, and a moment later a short, stocky man emerges from one shadow to move to another, heading for the theater, taking his time, watching his surrounding carefully.

Odd.

The man is definitely watching the theater, though, without a doubt. It's enough to make Finn a bit more curious.

Pushing from the roof, he sails over the man's head, well over, taking advantage of the night's darkness to move unseen and float down to land behind the man lightly as a feather, and almost as quietly. "I's not a good idea t'go sneakin' round this part o'town in the wee hours, friend. D'ye need help findin' summat?"

The man is good, despite his stocky and somewhat goofy appearance - swift as lightning he's turned around, a pistol in his hand, before he relaxes. "Oh. S'you. Yer Finn, right?" The man addresses him with a New York accent, one that he has to fight against wincing at. He's never really liked it much. Without waiting for an answer, he shoves an envelope towards Finn, who takes it from him. "There. Message delivered." Turning around, he stalks away, muttering something about being 'reduced to a delivery boy.'

He watches the man go, shaking his head and wondering what that was about, before turning his attention to the envelope as he walks back towards the theater. Tearing it open, he pulls out the single, thick sheet of parchment inside, expensive paper with a familiar black, red and orange logo on the top. Under it is a handwritten message.

Finn,

After having discussed it with my primary advisers, this proposed project of yours sounds like a worthwhile investment of time and resources. Send me a proposed budget and any other needs you may require at your earliest convenience.

Ed

A moment later he's upstairs, in the room with Avy. "So, love, it seems we'll have no trouble at all getting what we need to pull this thing together."

She takes the letter from him, scanning it over with a widening grin, her brilliant greens lighting up as she puts it aside. "Well, now tha' there're nae more distractions, tha' sounds like a good reason tae celebrate."

She doesn't give him the chance to answer as she pulls him into her embrace, which he goes into willingly. Her lips place a soft kiss on his ear before she murmurs softly to him. "Come t'bed, lover...there's still a li'l night left."

The sounds of laughter, of many kinds, echoes through the alleys and streets of this end of town, intermingled with the sound of fearful running feet and panicked breathing only broken by the occasional yelp of fear at a movement in the shadows surrounding her.

She knows she's being herded, being pursued by many - she can hear their laughter, cruel and taunting and all around her, not just two or three, but maybe as many as ten, lean, leering figures that had seized her from her sleeping lair in a ramshackle affair that could be called a shack on a good day.

From the shadows at the entrance of an alley, a grating, jeering voice screams, making her shriek with fear and bolt, tripping over her own feet and sprawling on the hard ground. "Run, rabbit run!" This is followed by laughter from shadowy figures on all sides, followed by variations on the same.

"Run, rabbit, run!"

"Run, run, little rabbit!"

"Keep running, rabbit girl!"

She does as the voices say, scrambling to her feet, heedless of the pain of her scraped hands and gashed shin, even as their laughter and taunts grow closer, echoing from all around like a pack of hyenas.

Presently she turns down an alleyway and bolts into the shadows, seeking someplace, any place, to hide, a hole, a trash can, a pile of filth or perhaps a sewer hole.

But there's nothing, and as she runs further down the alley, her eyes fall to her dismay on a sight that makes her wail in despair.

Dead end.

The laughter grows louder around her, catcalls and taunts closing in, and all the girl can do is scream back at them. It's been no use calling for help - she'd tried that for the first hour she was running, and there had been no one to answer her pleas.

"Why are you doing this to ME?!" she shrieks at them, tears running down her cheeks as she stands there, fear and exhaustion consuming her. In a kinder light, cleaned up, the dark-haired girl clad in rags might pass for twenty...in this dim light, frightened and dirty and unkempt with her hair a wild nest of tangles and bits of trash, she looks closer to fifteen. Hard enough for herself to believe that just a short while ago she had been minding her own business, tired and hungry perhaps, squatting in a home that was little more than a flimsy lean-to, but not facing her own death, at least.

From the shadows melts a number of tall, lean, hungry figures, all of them clad in what looks like grey dragon hide jackets, sporting various improvised weapons - baseball bats, lead pipes, boards studded with nails, one or two swinging chains whose rusty links clink with an almost perversely cheerful sound.

The leader of this ragtag assembly sports the same grey coat, a number of scars on his face, and no weapons at all, along with a leering grin. "We're doing it 'cause it's fun, little girl."

More laughter greets this remark, and the girl starts to cry, her voice small and hitching and stumbling. "P...p-please...I...I just wanna go home..."

Nothing greets this plea but more cruel laughter, mocking voices echoing and taunting again.

"I just wanna go home mommy!"

"Auntie Em, Auntie Em!"

"There's no place like home!"

And all the while they keep closing in around her.

Until the sound comes from the shadows behind her, the subtle whistling sound of something falling from the sky at high velocity, followed by the sound of something impacting heavily with the earth with enough force to make the earth tremble under their feet.

The lean figure that steps from the shadows a moment later is ordinary enough in appearance - lean, almost lanky, clad in black jeans, and a t-shirt of the same color, dark hair in windblown disarray on his head as topaz blue eyes regard the scene before him with a calm, thoughtful expression, tinged perhaps by amusement. The gravelly tone of his voice mixes oddly with the musical lilt of Irish as he speaks into the sudden stunned silence.

"Tha'll be 'nuff o' this game, boyos. Get tae runnin' 'long, 'fore some'a ye end up gettin' hurt."

The leader looks around the alley and his group, twelve strong not including himself. Turning his arrogant gaze back to the dark-clad figure that had stepped out of seemingly nowhere, he sneers. "Nah, punk. I think you can't count. See, we was already gonna kill this b*tch. Now we get two for the price of one." Snapping his fingers, the leader gestures at the pair, the girl scrambling already back behind the new player into his show.

"Beat that @ss 'till he ain't breathin', fellas."

Finn shakes his head as six of the gang step forward, though his features settle into an easy grin, confident and sure, a familiar glimmer in his eyes the Willow would recognize.

The Irish in them, they jokingly called it, even though they'd both been here since before the name Irish even took meaning, when the people living there had been little more than savages worshipping rocks.

As they move around him and the girl, he murmurs to her softly, his voice toned firm yet kind to cut through her panic. "Do nae move from tha' spot, m'dear."

Turning to the six completing their circle around him, he meets each of their eyes in turn. "Ye bes' be sure ye're wantin' tae ride this train, fellas."

The first one comes in at him, swinging his lead pipe at Finn's head like Hank Aaron aiming for the bleachers as he moves in from behind. Twisting in place at the waist without moving his feet, he reaches out and catches the pipe with one hand. There's the sound of screeching metal as he grips it hard enough to crush it in his ist and yanks. The thug is apparently not smart enough to let go, and gets yanked with it. Reaching out with his other hand, he grabs the young man by his arm and leans, pulling the punk off his feet. Leaning into the throw, Finn sends him flying off to collide with a pair that didn't join the first six, hard enough that the trio collectively are flung into the darkness behind them with a resounding crash.

Two more step into melee range, one on either side of him - the one to the left swinging high and from behind, the one on the right swinging low and to the front. Moving with unnatural swiftness, he steps towards the one on the right, siezing him by the front of his shirt and hurling him bodily into his compatriot hard enough that the pair are thrown into a wall hard enough to leave an impression.

The other three are right behind those two as he turns to face them, and all they can see is a blur that comes to meet each one in turn, tearing their weapons from their grasp and tossing them through the air like dolls, the last one to land at his leader's feet. Despite the strength he uses to throw them, none will suffer a more lasting injury than a severe headache and some bruises.

Finn, meanwhile, is unscratched, unruffled and not even out of breath, giving the leader of this little gang the same calm, contemplative work. "Ah tol' ye, lad. Ye migh' wantae get t'headin' 'long home, 'fore Ah hurt more'n jus' yer pride."

Apparently, the punk just hasn't gotten the message. Finn watches as he reaches under his coat for a weapon and comes out with a gun, and right about then he decides he's had enough of being nice.

He sees time slow to a mire as he steps forward - all the punk sees is a blur as the guy he's about to be shooting at is suddenly right in his face and the pistol is yanked painfully from his grip and an instant later he's hauled into the air. There's a brief blast of moving air, and when he looks down he finds he's being held by his arm, suspended by the Irishman...a mile in the air.

He does what any human would naturally do - panics. "Whoa, whoa, WHOA, dude, lemme down, lemme down! We was just trying to have a little fun, man, we wasn't gonna hurt her! Don't drop me, man, I swear we'll just take off if you just put me down safe man, PLEASE don't drop me!"

Finn lets the punk babble on for a minute more before he gives him a violent shake, jarring him to silence. "Now Ah wan' ye t'list'n tae me, an' list'n good, punk. Ah catch ye playin' yer li'l games 'round dis part o'town 'gain, and dis..." Finn holds up the pistol in his other hand and squeezes. The cheaply-made revolver shatters in his grip, and he lets the pieces fall from his hand, "...is what's gon' be happ'nin tae ye. Get me?"

The thug nods, his eyes wide with panic, fixed on the pieces falling to the ground far below. "Yuh. Y-y-yeah, dude. I sw-swear."

The punk screams like a girl as he feels himself falling abruptly, as Finn dives for the ground fast enough that it feels like they're going to be turned into nothing more than a Rorschach print on the earth below.

He slows their descent just as they are about to touch down, landing gently and tossing the gang leader away from him to skid across the ground. Unsurprisingly, the girl is unharmed, though still badly frightened, staring around at the other remaining gang members, who had all been mostly aimless without their leader to guide them along in their frenzied efforts.

They don't take long to pick up their friends and melt into the shadows again, and Finn watches them as they go, that grin still on his features.

Once they're gone, he turns to the girl, kneeling to her level, his calm topaz eyes on hers. "What's yer name, lass?"

The girl sniffs, her huge eyes coming up to meet his, her frame still trembling with adrenaline shock and fear. "F...Finch...my Hunter calls me Finch." Her lips tremble into a frown, tears forming fresh in her eyes and cutting through the dirt on her features. "Can...can you help me find him...?"

He smiles, nodding and offering her a hand. "Finch. Ah'm Finn. Le's get ye inside someplace warm an' get ye cleaned up an' summat t'eat, 'kay? An then we'll see what we c'n do tae find yer Hunter."

The girl nods, taking his hand hesitantly, and he leads her along out of the alleyway towards the shelter.

"You know... You know then? Where he is? He went away. There were no breadcrumbs left but he said he wouldn't go too far. He promised me. Promises are good. Powerful. They bind. Like ribbons. Dark ribbons..."

Her fingers would have twisted and twined. Her fingers would have interlaced in rapid patterns of touch and recollection if not for being captured and caged in the grip of his own. She followed with her simplistic obedience with steps more like hops then glisten gait.

Smoke quartz eyes flickered and flitted in nervous patterns and skitterish collection, a wrinkle of nose and a push out of lower lip in child's pout.

"He is okay. I would know. If not. I told him I wouldn't stray. Maybe I went to far chasing pretty colors. That's what they wanted you know. A spark a shine. They don't just take the flesh anymore. They make me fly away... "

A whisper before she was tugging on his hand frantically even as they approached the first steps of the shelter. A wrinkle of nose as she moved from foot to foot. Free hand scrubbed at dirty features.

"Bath before dreams if you please. I can't face him. Not like this. Damaged. Broken. Bad. So bad. I had to close my eyes when it hurt. They take take take but I found a way to escape."

A triumphant smile and a tap of brow with free fingers.

"Taking of the flesh but they didn't know. They didn't figure out my plan. I found a way to escape. Skin. Flesh. It's a cage... but I found the door and I flew away. Still watched but wasn't so bad then. I wasn't there. You won't tell will you? It's a secret. They must not know."

A look over shoulder wondersome and worrisome as she frowned. "Angels. Angels. Strangers. Lost Lost. Souls. Drifters despair. One ... he hurts but he's not alone. He should know. He's not alone. You should tell him when you see him. He's never been alone. She's always there. Pretty girl for a lonely boy. Not so young though. No no no."

Staring at the door then she fell into a luminous silence, her mind all but fragments without the Hunter.

Whispering like a confession as she looked finally back up to Finn quite shyly with words deep with remorse.

"I'm not Snow White... but he... still the Hunter. Don't tell him. He must not know my secret. I'm not her. It's okay. I had to save the Raven for another rainy day when her blood was rubies to save the night walker. The Dreamer and the King they couldn't come so I had to do it and the demons took the flesh but not the soul. Still... don't tell."

A murmur and a scrub at cheek with a tattered, dirty sleeve as she sighed wearily and looked down at her feet in innocent shame.