Incongruent Neighbourhood

The guard closest to her folded up like a shop mannequin. He died quietly as his heart burst like an over-ripe fruit, the high velocity round exploding out of his back with a helical spray, spattering both Aislynn and her captor with viscera.

A pair of large holes appeared in the house's wooden panelling, followed shortly by anguished screams as the guards on the second floor met an untimely end.

Silence fell across the incongruous street. Smoke gusted from the shattered attic, a glitter of brass marking the passage of the falling shell cases. On the house's ground floor, a frightened face could be partially seen through a grubby pane of glass, as the remaining guards hunted for their mysterious assailant.

He had already moved to the house across, through a hole knocked in the fragile walls, tufts of fiber-glass insulation clinging to his coat. With a grunt, he dropped through a ruined ceiling onto the detritus strewn ground floor, tucking himself into a neat paratroop roll.

Invisible in the shadows thrown by a crumpled air conditioner, he levelled his rifle.

Another two shots marked the demise of the guards on the ground floor, arterial spray spattering across the inside of the windows.

Aislynn comes around to a pounding, stabbing pain in her head, and grabs frantically for her hair as she finds herself being dragged backwards across the floor. As her eyes refocus she can make out the crimson blood on the windows, lit in a moment of horrifying beauty by the rising sun outside. She realises that the man dragging her is muttering, swearing, and as soon as she has her wits about her, she screams.

It tries to be a name, a prayer, a word, but between her ruined throat and the swelling around her mouth, it sounds simply like "WAAARRRR", the other syllables somehow lost in the process. The noise earns her a kick, and suddenly she is released, her forehead bouncing off the wooden floor beneath her, before Shirtsleeves hauls her back to her feet, pressing her body to his, her back against his front as his arm closes around her neck, putting her throat in the crook of his elbow.

"Stupid whore." She snarls at her. "Shut up." He continues his mad scuttle backwards, heading for the stairs, hauling her around in an attempt to use her as cover. How many of them were there? Why had they attacked with guns, and not with the other abilities he *knew* they had? He glances through the nearest window, and watches as blood patterns the glass of the opposite house.

He swore.

Moments later they are back on the balcony, and Aislynn can feel the cool weight of a gun muzzle pressed against her temple.

"STEP OUTSIDE!" The words are bellowed from right beside her ear, and she flinches reflexivly, and just as quickly regrets the motion as he jams the metal barrel at her again, harder. He needs her for cover, and the majority of his suited body is covered by her own lithe frame as he surveys the house across the road.

"STEP OUTSIDE, OR SHE DIES."

A cool exhalation to squash the squall of anger raging inside him. An imperceptible movement to steady the heavy rifle. A blink to clear the dust from his vision.

He saw the girl and the man behind her. His pinched face and greased hair. The rapidly spreading sweat patches under her arm, the drops of blood running into his eyes. A shard of glass crunched under his foot as he adjusted his body position, pulling the scope down towards Aislynn's knobbly knees, and the dark fabric of her captor's suit trousers.

She would feel the bullet pass her. The heat of the metal against her leg, drawing a thin line of blood across her pale skin. The effect on the man behind was was infinitely more dramatic.

The heavy calibre round drilled through his knee cap, the soft lead bullet expanding to destroy the soft tissue behind the bone. It exited out the back of his leg with a wet crack, leaving the lower half of the limb hanging by a few pieces of shattered ivory.

She feels the pain, first of the blow to her temple, then across her knee...

It is not until the weight falls from the back of her that she realises something is different, now... She stares for a long moment at the man writhing, trying at once to keep his gun trained on her, and to protect his half-severed limb.

She doesn't remember moving, but Aislynn finds herself sat on his chest, her slight weight pressed through her knees into the ball of his shoulder joint. The gun is halfway across the room within, and her good hand is wrapped around his throat. She grips tighter, and a demonic strength flows in her veins as she resists his attempts to throw her, half crippled by her position, half by his own injury which is rapidly leaking his lifeblood over the floor.

"M g'na d'stroy you." She tells him, forcing some semblance of sense around her battered mouth and ripped vocal cords. "T'k your soul, ahn rip it..." She squeezes tighter, her fingers going white with effort. She doesn't care. She doesnt care if his reinforcements come pounding up the stairs, if the next bullet goes through her own soul.

She wants revenge, and she bares her teeth in a feral grimace as she leans her weight forwards.

A wiry figure ghosted from the ruined doorway, his coat discarded revealing his corded musculature hidden beneath a sweat-stained white shirt. A brown leather holster rig criss-crossed his torso, the brass cases of individual rounds catching the harsh sunlight.

The application of a heavy boot ripped the house's door from its hinges, the booming report of a large revolver echoing from within as he stormed inside.

Scant seconds later, he emerged onto the upper floor with an impeccable fluidity of motion, the pistol in his hand spitting the last of its load into the unprotected torso of the house's last remaining defender.

Silhouetted by the rising sun, he turned towards the hunched figure of the girl on the balcony, deftly stowing the pistol as he crossed the room.

By the time Edward had stormed his way to her, Aislynn has put all of her insubstantial weight on the man's throat, and is panting with exertion. The thrashings of the injured, bleeding man had become light taps, his eyes rolling back into his skull as the last of the oxygen is drawn from his blood. Still she remains, and waits... waits to feel some kind of release. Some kind of justification, some victory for what has come to pass.

It doesn't come, and after a moment the dark void of her rage begins to fill with panic and she shakes the limp head, dragging the throat up and down, battering the head against the floor. "No. No. No, no, no..." She cannot explain it, she cannot understand it, but suddenly Aislynn is filled with every ounce of fear that she had felt within that house, and at his hands. "Just die. Just DIE." The scream becomes a croak, and blood runs from her split lips.

She glances up to see a silhouette come at her from the darkness and reaches into the small holster at her torturer's belt. The tiny gun was barely worth mentioning, a snub-nosed, small calibre contraption, and her hand shakes as she aims it. "S'n't you." She gasps, trying to rally what strength of will she has left. "Used th' button. L'ft. One'f them." She takes a deep, laboured breath, paling as she registers the pain even from that motion. Her movements are sudden, and the head beneath her knees sprouts a new pair of holes, littering her flesh with blood and thicker, wetter things.

She looks quickly back to the figure in the shadows, shifting her own hand to her temple. "W'n't let 't h'pp'n 'gain."

“You want the easy way out?”

His voice was almost as hoarse as hers, a dry croak almost bereft of any emotion or compassion. A man who had given his all for a failed cause. The rigid strength supporting his frame evaporated, his shoulders sagging, the pistol slipping in his tired grip.

“Fine.”

The word rang out like a death knell, imbued with a sour mixture of regret and disappointment. “Thought you were stronger.” This flickered over his shoulder as he turned back to the stairs, the toe of his boot smearing the spray of viscera coating the wooden floorboards.

Some flicker of recognition shifts across her expression, and just for an instant, she blinks.

Perhaps it was the sound of regret in his voice, or the hunch of his shoulders- echoes of a man long dead. One who had died at Their hands, that was lost... she'd thought lost.

He'd never leave her here. No.

But he would have come to save her.

Could that echo be enough? Enough to hold on to, to ignore the hatred and resentment she'd seen after they'd left the hospital? Even before the discharge had been signed?

The small, broken, childlike part of Aislynn's soul whimpered from deep within the box she'd wrapped around it, and it's enough to bring the gun down, just slightly, to lift her voice just enough to cover drift across the bloodsplattered floorboards between them.

"'Dward?" It hurts to force her lips around the consonants, and she winces. She doesn't ask if it's him, because he doesn't think he'd understand the question. Did he even know how different he was now? How far away he'd gone?

"Hurts."

Some flicker of recognition shifts across her expression, and just for an instant, she blinks.

Perhaps it was the sound of regret in his voice, or the hunch of his shoulders- echoes of a man long dead. One who had died at Their hands, that was lost... she'd thought lost.

He'd never leave her here. No.

But he would have come to save her.

Could that echo be enough? Enough to hold on to, to ignore the hatred and resentment she'd seen after they'd left the hospital? Even before the discharge had been signed?

The small, broken, childlike part of Aislynn's soul whimpered from deep within the box she'd wrapped around it, and it's enough to bring the gun down, just slightly, to lift her voice just enough to cover drift across the bloodsplattered floorboards between them.

"'Dward?" It hurts to force her lips around the consonants, and she winces. She doesn't ask if it's him, because he doesn't think he'd understand the question. Did he even know how different he was now? How far away he'd gone?

"Hurts."

“Didn't stop me.”

Edward paused momentarily at the head of the stairs to turn and look back across the room at the crumpled figure on the balcony.

“I could have given up in the snow.” Once, he might have dashed across the decaying room to her, to console her, as if his mere presence could make her better. The man who stood at the stair head was a radically different person. This man had no time for compassion or sentiment.

He scraped his boot against the top step, glancing back at her. “I didn't fight my way across this whole fucking city for you to give up now. Get up.”

"Liar."

She hears the word out of her mouth before she can stop it, and she is just too bone weary, too broken, too lost, to try and retract it. She looks down at the slack, lifeless face between her knees, and forces herself to stand. The myriad of thin slices that tracked across the balls and heels of her feet like the web of maddened, sadistic spider sent eletric strands of pain up her spine, forcing tears into her eyes.

She glances to him them. "'Dward died there." She takes a step, ignoring the bloodied footprints she tracks behind her. "J'st d'nt have th' decency t' 'dmit 't."

Old hurt flowers in her chest as brilliantly as it had the first day he'd given her that look, or when she'd handled him the button back, believed that he'd used it. It goes some way to overlaying the list of physical hurts, and she limps her way towards the stairs with a slow, wavering pace.

“And I'm stronger because of it.”

The man at the stair head was unfettered by petty things like morality or sentiment. A machine might have displayed more care for the tortured figure in front of him. His eyes radiated a glacial coldness, his mouth set in a grim line.

“You would have died here without me.”

The blood on this man's hands would never come off. To reach this point, he had committed atrocities that would make a sadistic killer squirm. He had sunk to the lowest depths of humanity, and taken a liking to what he found.

"Might still."

Her hand finally finds the beginning of the banister rail, forcing her to twist awkwardly at the waist to lay her uninjured hand on it, nonetheless she feels better with some of the weight lifted from her abused feet.

Still she doesnt move though, and instead regards him from close quarters, her gaze as flat as his is cold. Mentally she shunts away what remains of her innocence, her battered and bruised soul, locking it back in the protective box that had allowed her to survive all that has come against her.

"Why come, 'Dward. Clear yeh d'nt care." Despite her best efforts, the words hurt, and her mouth twists into an unhappy line until she can force some form of neutrality onto her features again. She takes another breath, and winces again as it sets ribs to grinding. "Why come?"

Part of her cowers from the answer, she doesnt want to know, she doesnt want to hear his response. Part of her wants him to leave, just to walk out of the door and out of her life... at least then she would know. But then, she doesn't. The practical portion of her brain screams that she'd die here without his help getting out, even as her heart screams that those few, faint echoes of the Edward she'd known were enough to hold on for. So she leans more weight on the banister, propping the damaged arm on it as well as she regards him, as though they weren't surrounded by the numerous corpses of her captors, his victims.

Thomas slipped his lock-knife (called so because it was both strong and sharp enough to cut through the bolt of a lock if necessary) into the space between the final security door and its frame, pushing the blade toward the floor and hearing the quiet, distressed groan and soft ping of steel giving way before the much sturdier substance of his blade. Of course, a tool was only as good as its user, and he was more than adequate for the task. Pulling the door open very carefully to minimize any noise it might make, he listened for a moment, recognizing the voices of one young woman and a man of indeterminate age. Given they were not yelling, he had to assume they were not the potential combatants he was warned occupied the building. Now, if they didn’t decide he was their enemy, nobody would have to get hurt.



He slipped through the door on silent feet, his gear stowed close to his body beneath a layer of what appeared to be normal clothing, and for the most part was – just reinforced with a bit of light ballistic mesh. Tear-away panels gave him access to whatever he needed in an emergency (Velcro was a wonderful thing), but without a deliberate effort they were all but impossible spot and he wasn’t about to advertise. He climbed the stairs as quietly as he could, but made just enough noise to be heard by the two on the landing so they wouldn’t act out of any kind of surprise. When he came into sight and saw the man pointing a gun in his direction, he held his hands where they could be seen, saying “I’m here to move the lady to safety.” Reaching with two fingers into his breast pocket for the I.D. (which would have wiped itself with a single command if he had been captured by the hostiles in the building), he flipped it open so the man could see it. He gave the cold-eyed man a good ten seconds to regard the badge and I.D., then flipped it closed again and tucked it into his pocket as he moved more quickly up the stairs.



While the man was inspecting his identification, Thomas was inspecting him, and he didn’t like what he saw. The shadows in his eyes were those of someone who had deliberately abandoned most, if not all, of those things that made a person human, and that filled Thomas with contempt. An assassin, he thought to himself, and one with little to hold him back anymore. Passing the man, he said only “Your part in this is now over. Go home…or wherever your kind goes,” and then continued around him and to the young woman. If the man decided to have an issue, Thomas could just use his stunner and leave the man outside the building, drooling and twitching. Seeing the trail of blood that clearly marked the path of the young woman's travel, he swore, and picked her clean off her feet. Had she not been bleeding, and merely barefoot, he would have taken the time to get her on his back. Of course, her mangled hand was also a concern, since a one-handed grip was a poor one at best. Pretty thing, he thought to himself, but didn't let that distract him or slow him down in the slightest. She'd been through more than enough.



Holding her with was obviously no real effort on his part, he carried her down the stairs, swearing quietly but profusely about the man they were leaving behind, ‘f---ing animal’ being the kindest of the insults he expressed about Edward. His cursing was that of an experienced soldier, and somehow he managed to avoid repeating himself during the entire journey to the motorcycle waiting below. He still attempted stealth on his way out, but it looked very much like the assassin had cleared a wide path through the ones who had held this young woman captive, and so speed was more important at this point. Still, he did everything in his power to minimize the jostling she experienced, and the arms holding her did not waver in their strength, feeling almost as steady as firmly-anchored posts.



Reaching the motorcycle, he placed her on the seat so that both legs were hanging off one side, pulling a roll of bandages from one of his pockets and wrapping her feet with gentle but swift motions. “We need to move, but I didn’t think I’d need to bring shoes for you. I’m afraid this is the best I can do for the moment,” he said, looking up at her as he tucked the final bit of bandage into place, “Think you’ll be able to manage for a bit?”

The moment that she hears another being moving in the house below, Aislynn wants to topple. She can't take it. Any of it. Not the blank, unfeeling look in Edward's eyes, not the potential for more pain, more violence, not the pain in her body, none of it. So when she hears the phrasing the man below her uses, she cannot help but but stare at him wide eyed. The identification he flashes at her means less than nothing, but as he takes one look at her, and swears with more emphasis, more empathy, more anything, than Edward had shown since the first round of operations at the hospital she glances between them.

She wants to believe. That Edward's facade was only that, that it would crack and crumble... that he had come for her, to save her, that his threat to leave her had been a bluff that she'd fallen for.... But each step on her damaged feet causes spears of pain to shoot up her spine, and there is a small, bitter part of her brain that says that whatever Edward was now... it wasn't the kind of man, or creature, to care for her hurts. And she hurt...

The thought of resistance was all but removed from her in any case, she couldn't have resisted the man's arms if she'd tried, and even being carried moves her pain from one area to another ,as the collarbone grinds it's broken ends together, and the hand that instinctively flexes to attempt to grip him leaves her gasping. Her shattered ribs force her to lean uncomfortably to one side, and it allows her a view of Edward's face as she is carried down the stairs, and while she lacks the anger, the pain, of their parting on the roof... it feels just as disconnected. She might as well have been talking to his gravestone, the one that marked the passing of the man who had cared for her, fed and protected her when no other would, ran for and with her... For that man wasn't here anymore.

She balances as best she can on the bike, her jaw clenched tight as the unknown man binds her feet, letting out only the occasional gasp of pain as he does so, nodding when he asks her if she'll manage. Unsure if she could unhinge her jaw long enough to speak, she instead extends her fingers, touching at his wrist in agreement...

It is a moment of contact, a heartbeat, no more... one that brings her flesh in contact with his, that lends her a tiny sliver of his own essential energy... The shimmers don't 'appear' as such, but between one breath and the next she can sense them... just a little, and those she feels attached to her apparent saviour... or kidnapper... convince her of one thing. He isn't Them.

In the end, she can only utter one word, taking one last glance at the living memorial, or at least, back the way she'd come, and to the man beside her... "Please."

He looked up into her eyes as she spoke, pausing for a long moment before resuming activity, nodding as he said "We'll get you somewhere you can get better, ma'am." Using one hand to help keep her steady, he pulled a small device out of one of the pouches attached to the back end of the motorcycle, the beep of its activation quiet even in the unpleasant stillness of the neighborhood. He held it about a foot away from Aislynn, moving it with a steady but moderately rapid effort, and he grimaced when he saw what it was telling him. Looking her in the eyes again, he said "I'm going to have to keep you steady as we move. I'll bind your arm so your hand and collarbone won't move, and then I'll get you settled so you won't fall off when we get going. It may hurt a little, but I'll try to be as careful as possible."

That done, he suited actions to words and took out some more bandages, wrapping them around her wrist enough times to allow for comfort before beginning to twine the bandages around her torso so her arm was fixed in place across it, immobilized enough that small motions at least were not going to cause her discomfort. Once he was finished with that, he took off his jacket and laid it across her shoulders, then helped her turn carefully so she was properly astride the rear seat. Digging around in his pouches again, he pulled out two pairs of handcuffs, showed them to her, and said "To keep you from having to use your feet to support yourself on the bike, I'm going to put these on your ankles." Producing the key, he quickly shows her that it will unlock both pairs, then he tucks the key in the right-hand pocket of the jacket she is now wearing and says "You'll have the key the whole time. This is just for your safety."

He then located the most ideal points to hook the cuffs, trying to settle them carefully around her ankles so they didn't dig into her skin while they moved, but couldn't find a spot on her legs where that wouldn't be a problem. Grunting, he simply took off his boots, pulled off his socks, shoved his feet back in their respective attire, and used his socks to cushion the cuffs. He settled a helmet on her head, slightly on the large side but adjustable enough that it wasn't a problem. Finally, he put his leg over the driver's seat, gently pulled the arms of the jacket forward, and tied them across his chest, making sure she had some small amount of movement space but was still close enough that any shifts he had to make for balance would be followed by her. He then settled his own helmet on his head and looked back over his shoulder, saying "I'd tell you to hold on tight, but that would be silly. I'll be as careful as I can, just try not to throw off our balance if you can avoid it." The visor came down, he faced forward again, then there was a click and a whirr, and the hybrid motorcycle was in motion.

Aislynn spends the next minutes looking towards the house- despite herself, she hopes to see Edwards booted feet pound down the ground wooden stairs. To see his familiar eyes glitter with fury at having her removed from him, again, with the belief that someone else could look after her better than he could.

It doesn't happen.

As seconds tick past, the apparent stillness within the house only drives it home harder, and she spares her rescuer only a few glances and tiny nods of agreement. It isn't until it is clear that he means to place the helmet on that she speaks at all, and though her voice is hoarse and painful, she does what she can to make it carry back to the house.

"Go Home, Edward." The apology that follows is muffled by the thick material of the helmet, though she does murmur it despite herself. "I'm sorry..." It's a sentiment that she's spoken over and over again to the man who had saved her life countless times over the past months. Who had put himself- mind, body and soul- on the line, and paid for it each step of the way. Her mind flashes back to the sight of his bemused, bespectacled gaze so long ago. The easy motions with which he paid a diner waitress for discretion, though he had no need to do so. Her apology is more to him, that long lost soldier, than it is the assassin who stands in his stead. But she means it anyway.

The lurch of the cycle into motion brings her gaze back to the man who had bound her, quite literally to him. She drops her head, resting the forehead of the helmet against his back, and focuses on breathing.

She would never know what point that focus had deteriorated into unconsciousness- her broken, battered body too abused to keep up with all she demanded of it. And in truth, she didn't care.

He felt the tension leave her body when she finally passed out, and it actually made things easier - dead weight was no problem for him, and with her connected to him as she was, he could manage her mass without an issue. Driving through the displaced neighborhood only took a few minutes, but he slowed and then stopped at the fringe. He pulled the sensor from his pocket, thumbing it on and pointing it in various directions until it glowed a particular hue, then tucked it back where it came from, started the motorcycle's engine for the extra power, and drove slowly but directly at the point where the sensor had indicated there was a Fissure.

A small, bizarre-looking pod affixed beneath the headlights lit up when he hit a switch, and the 'crowbar' (as he had chosen to call it) fired an invisible stream of particles at the thinnest point where the dimensional shift had actually taken place, forcing the Fissure (the scientists that had created this device had had WAY too much time to think of terminology) open so a journey could be made through to the dimension where this neighborhood had originated. He had a map, the sensor, and a way to recharge the 'crowbar', so he knew he could get back to one of his redoubts eventually. It was just a matter of time, and occasional inconvenience. Fortunately, his motorcycle was fully fueled, so keeping everything charged was easy enough, and it was only a matter of perhaps a half-day of driving until they were somewhere safe for recuperation.

The outside marketplace was absolutely the best place to steal food. It was in the open air and one did not have to worry about getting trapped inside the interior of a store. Luana had always loved wide open spaces the most, even in the rain. She hated most of all to be trapped or cornered. It had happened too many times in her private life. Always in the same horrible place. Luana shook off the memories, trying to refocus her mind on the task at hand. Today was a special day. She had decided to attempt to push her abilities even further than she had before.

The seven-year-old crawled over to the edge of the low rooftop she was hiding on and peered down at the crowded street below. Tent-covered stations were set up lining the street on each side. The local farmers were selling everything from watermelons to forn to pickled beef and grilled lamb. It was a feast for the eyes. Luana's mouth watered as she tried to decide just what to have for breakfast. She was strangely in the mood for meat of all things. Normally she had a sweet tooth but not today. Her penetrating gaze focused on the stand right belong her. Some amazing scents were wafting from that location. Unfortunately, due to the tent cover, she could not really see what she was dealing with. It smelled like fired beef porcini, which was her absolute favorite.

To get some, she was going to have to find a different angle. In a crouched position, she turned around and sat, resting her back against the low wall of the building's rooftop. Luana tapped a forefinger against her lower lip as she considered her strategy. Yes, today she might have to make an in-person appearance. If she chatted the seller up and acted like a charming little girl, he might let his guard down enough for her to raise a portion of the fired beef porcini up onto the rooftop with her mind. But that would mean having to multi-task. She would have to maintain a conversation while using telekinesis. It would be a challenge and she was not sure if she could do it. But, again, she wanted to challenge her abilities today. It was the only way she would continue to improve.

Luana crawled away from the edge of the roof toward an alleyway with a maintenance ladder leading down. As she descended toward street level, she passed by a recently-cleaned window and saw her reflection. She was filthy as usual. A thought occurred to her. She needed to look like an ordinary child with an ordinary home life or else someone might call the authorities. If the cops were called and they caught her, her father would beat her for getting in trouble with the law. She came to the conclusion that she needed to steal some new clothes and wash her face. It would be a pain in the backside because it seemed that whenever she stole a new pair of clothes, she outgrew them the next morning. She wished things would last longer so she would not have to steal as much.

In fact, she wished even more that she was an adult so she could hold a legitimate job and support herself that way. It would certainly be easier than risking getting in trouble all the time. But whenever she had gone places to ask for work, she had been told that she was too young and it was illegal to hire her. She sighed. When she got down to the pavement, she found a fairly clean trashcan lid turned upside down that was full of rainwater. She splashed the water all over her face in a feeble attempt to look presentable. When the water stilled again, she examined her reflection. It was not perfect, but it was an improvement for sure. Next, she adjusted her threadbare clothes, trying to hide the holes as best she could. Once she thought she was ready, she ventured out of the alley and joined the crowd, careful first to look around for the presence of any authority figures. There was a cop at the end of the street on his regular beat, but he was not even looking her way. She did not see anyone else in uniform and breathed a sigh of relief.

Luana plastered a smile to her face and strode right up to the stand selling the fired beef porcini. The mix of delicious scents from cooking and cooked food stirred her appetite and she struggled not to drool. "Good morning, mister."

He was a middle-aged man with short brown hair who looked down at her with a befuddled look on his face at first. "Beat it, kid. No free handouts," he barked, trying to shoo her along.

Luana feigned a look of horror. "Hand... handouts? Oh, I'm not hungry, sir. Besides, if I was, my daddy would buy me something when he gets back. I just noticed that you were new here and I wanted to welcome you to the neighborhood. Are you a cattle farmer? That must mean you're like a cowboy. I think cowboys are really cool."

The man snorted, almost amused by her words. "Heh, no, I'm no cattle farmer. I work for one though." He gave her an odd look. "So what's your dad doing leaving you all alone here? You seem a little young to be on your own."

Luana smiled again. "Oh, my mommy passed away when I was born, so my daddy has to raise me all by himself. I don't mind being on my own for a little while. I'm real good about not getting lost. I promised Daddy I would stay put while he's at his job interview and that's what I intend to do. He should be back in maybe fifteen minutes."

"Well you should at least have a baby sitter, kid."

Luana sighed. "I wish we could afford it, but money has been a little tight lately. I'd love to have a babysitter to play with. Hopefully, he'll get the job and we won't have to be on such a small budget anymore," she cleverly lied.

The seller seemed to let down his guard a little. "Ah, well, good luck to the old man then."

As Luana engaged the man in reluctant conversation, the seven-year-old girl was highly focused and tried to keep her eyes from flitting over to her true target, a plate of fired beef porcini as she used her mind to carefully wrap it up in plastic wrap. It had to be wrapped up because she feared she might accidentally overturn it while transporting it elsewhere. Her telekinetic abilities could be a bit unsteady at times. Transporting water in an open glass, for example, was challenging. Luana hoped no one would notice the items moving seemingly all by themselves. She kept the movements slow and subtle while the rest of the populace was distracted with their daily grocery shopping regimen.

Suddenly, a swirling vortex appears to the northwest. You can see something appear in that direction.