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The dappled late-afternoon sunlight fell over them in silence, bright gilt leaves laced with heavy shadows. Jill’s white-stockinged legs swayed as she dangled them over the old stone wall of the park.

Amber’s were perfectly still.

Jill waited. Eyes averted, she watched ants crawl over their backpacks, dropped into the dusty leaf piles guttering the cobblestones.

Her best friend was just staring off into the brown of fall, at nothing in particular.

“They can’t do this,” Jill finally started, after she could no longer stand the tightening grasp of the silence.

“It’s a Catholic school,” Amber answered, voice low, broken. She sounded both stunned and unsurprised at the same time. Resigned.

The expulsion of Jeannie and Kayla in the year above them had rocked the school, of course, in the nasty schadenfreude way of anything negative happening to any among the inmates at that particular religious prison. The sweet-faced girls in shining gold crosses who threatened accusations that anyone they didn’t like was a [lesbian]-- and it was a threat, calculated and deadly, cherry-balmed lips spitting the word with savored venom-- certainly weren’t feeling any sorrow about the event. It almost didn’t matter which of them had been the rat. It could have come from anyone, when the accusation also served as self-defense.

But the news affected some girls more than others.

Jill soldiered on, indignant, uncomprehending. “Yeah, but they can’t just expel people for things girls are.”

“They can.” Amber’s voice was monotone.

Silence stretched on for a long moment. Sparrows hopped around the stones.

Jill’s voice was lower, emotional. “They won’t get you.”

…Well. Okay. Nobody says that, really. Nobody aside from Benji, at least.

He’s having a rare moment of reflection upon his past wherein he doesn’t want to immediately smoke himself into a stupor. He’s not particularly happy about what he’s thinking about, but he figures he can stand thinking about himself in vague terms without wanting to rip his own hair out. Or his eyes. His skin? Whatever. He’d tear himself apart fully in a nervous flurry so it doesn’t really matter, does it?

His childhood was fine. He doesn’t remember it, of course, but he knows he was born at sea. He was the oldest, both of his sisters being born in quick succession after him. He was happy then, he got on well enough with his sisters, he loved his parents. He was a shy child, spent most of his time with his nose buried in a book, whether it be to read or draw, but it made him happy and that’s what mattered.

Things went downhill when he went to New York for the first time, he supposed. Things were fine at first—he went to a university there, he wanted to be a surgeon. He met a nice man, rugged, handsome. A longshoreman. They kept their relationship a secret out of necessity but Benji—Benjamin then—didn’t mind. The people around him probably didn’t understand why Lance’s death affected him so much because of that. He went home, rattled to the core, terrified of the thought of death, whether it happen to him or anyone else he loved.

Fortunately—or not—Gautier was visiting when Benjamin returned. Gautier saw the state that he was in and offered a gift, a gift of undeath. He really should’ve thought about it more but the promise of immortality was alluring, so he accepted the gift. He regretted that decision quickly—the first night he was a vampire, he stayed out during the sunrise, wanting to see it for the last time. He burned his eyes, damaging them even worse than they had been before. Thankfully, his glasses still allowed him to see clearly.

Next… He went some weeks without feeding. He figured he’d see how long he can go without, finding people to feed from was bothersome and he didn’t like having to assail people walking on the street and nobody he knew was willing to let him feed from them. He felt worse and worse as time progressed during this little experiment, could feel himself slipping away towards the end of it, and before he knew it—he blacked out, woke up the next night—the same night? Was it even night?—in an alleyway. His clothing torn to shreds, laying in a puddle of blood, surrounded by chunks of entrails and shards of bone. Gautier chided him for letting himself go that far, but seemed mostly nonplussed by it. Benji has never starved himself to that extent since. By choice, at least.

After pouring him a brandy, she starts taking her hair down. Out of the tight bun, it relaxes into a mass of thick waves, coming down to just below her shoulders. 

“So, tell me your name.”

“Most folks around here just call me barkeep.”

Ursula throws back the glass of brandy in one gulp. “What is it with this town? Everyone here has been so reticent about telling me their names. That doctor told me to just call her ‘doc’. The innkeeper downstairs would barely speak to me. And now you?”

The barman sips at his brandy slowly, looking at his feet through the bottom of his glass “Most folks around here just don’t like prying into others’ business. That’s just the way things are.”

“Well, says Ursula, “it seems that you are the exception to that rule.”

“It’s just that people like to talk. You’ve got to keep your secrets. I expect folks are already gossiping about you. You know, people might think you’re up to something strange.”

It takes a moment for Ursula to respond, and it takes longer for the barman to notice her eyes are fixed on his face. “People might think that? Or do you think that?”

He sets his glass down, allowing himself a moment of humility. This stranger is more perceptive than he guessed, and that’s not something he’s familiar with. “I guess I do let my imagination get away from me at times. You bust into my saloon like that and I start thinking you’re about to go all ‘Man With No Name’ on our town. Doesn’t occur to me that maybe you just like dressing up as a cowboy.”

“It’s not just dress-up,” Ursula says. Her tone is soft. “But I guess you’re partly right. I am looking for someone who stole a great deal from me. That’s why I’m all the way out here, in the middle of nowhere.”

She must see his face light up, because she adds, “But I intend to settle the matter diplomatically. No stand-offs or shootouts.”

The barman points to the gun holster at her hip. “Then what’s with the big irons? What are those for? Diplomacy?”

She smiles again. Her breath smells of chewing tobacco. “Rattlesnakes, mostly.”

“Ah.” He stares at the red sun through the thin cotton curtains. “Look, I’m sorry I made so many assumptions about you. And, uh, my name’s Elio.”

“I made assumptions about you too, Elio,” says Ursula. “And about the people of this town. I hope someday you get a visit from someone more exciting. Like someone out of one of your movies.”

“I hope so too,” says the barman. “And I hope you get your man.”

“I don’t doubt I will.” Ursula stands up. “I better get to bed. I want to make an early start tomorrow.”

“Oh,” the barman says. He stands up too. “I’m sorry for keeping you. And if you ever find yourself in town again, please stop by the saloon. You’re by far the most interesting person to wash up here, and it’d be a pity never to see you again.”

“I’d like to think I made a friend here, Elio, and those are rare for me. I’m sure you will see me again.”

Something in her words brings a strange lightness to the barman’s chest, and he feels the distinct sensation of blood collecting in his cheeks. “Thank you,” is all he can say.

He leaves the room and makes his way down the stairs slowly. At the desk, he says nothing to the innkeeper, and the innkeeper says nothing back. 

Outside, he leans against a post and watches the sun as it sets through the thick haze of sand and dust. It’s a long time before he moves again.

Kier sits mutely in a white bed, the bleached scent around him barely registering. Actually, everything is not really computing at the moment.

There's three pillows at his back, yet he doesn't feel any of them; bright flowers sit in a vase, but he's not sure what they are; the curtains are open and sunlight is hitting him right in the face, yet his vision is spotty and dimmed. 

His legs are gone, he should be in pain—yet all he sees, hears, feels is static. 

Is this what those old veterans go through? When they lose something? The reality barely even sinks in, because they've already lost so much? 

...is that what he is now? A veteran? A tool, no longer of use?

The army's going to discharge him, that's obvious—and perhaps it will be honourably, with a small private gathering of his unit. Maybe even an after-party with his mates. A thank-you, a sign of appreciation and gratitude. 

A farewell, a final goodbye; a sign, he no longer belonged. 

His train of thought is broken by the creak of a door, impossibly loud. He turns, slowly, to see a man walk in. His footing is slow and measured, the clicks help ground the feline to a degree. And maybe the wolf releases this, because he proceeds to make his steps heavier. 

The crisp white uniform he wears is familiar, as is the blue visor hiding his eyes. The other is speaking, but Kier is more focussed on trying to recall who the other is. 

Finally, he remembers. 

He mechanically raises his arm in a salute, resolutely ignoring the faint buzz of pain. "Commander."