#Some People The World Cant Afford to Lose || Reese and Sasha

[theyxlived]

Not Just Another Number...

Closed starter for @anurbanlcgend​

Light travels faster than sound. Everyone knows that. But what most people don’t know? A bullet travels fastest. Sometimes hits its mark before the sound of it can even consider becoming an echo. That echo that reverberates in her skull. Wet heat on her skin. On her hands as pure shock has her looking down. Seeing what should be on the inside of her on the outside. Oddly it reminds her of properly made and blended marinara sauce. A slightly weird, if not disgusting thing to think of in the aftermath of a bullet ripping through her chest--but there it was.

The world streaking into colors. Buildings melding with sky. Brick with side walk. And the collison of her hitting gritty concrete. And maybe she notices the sky for the first time in a what feels like her whole life. Blue sky and whisps of clouds that so often go unappriciated because most everyone in this city lives in a bubble. Never thinking to look up let alone doing it. And the beauty of it is only interupted now by the fact she can’t breathe. By the instinct to cough as the dark closes in. By the fact she’s going t--

A half step back from crossing the street. No. No not that way. Worn converse on the sidewalk. A one eighty turn and weaving against the current of cross walkers until she can make it into the other lane of pedestrians. Feet hurrying her back to the corner, a breath. Two. A step towards the other crossing. 

Eyes. Green like the living room used to be on Sunday mornings. The sun washing in from the windows. Lighting up her mother’s small jungle of creeping vines and elephant eared plants. Color that got reflected into the rest of the room. Warmed it up. Made if feel like a home as much as look like one. They alone make her want to trust. Believe in the person they belong to. Even if she knows nothing at all about him. Not yet. Doesn’t know the story set into the edges of a five o’clock shadow. The history written into the laugh lines. What little tales lie painted in thin strips of grey through black. But it feels safe. That face.

Hands on her arms. Ones that catch not restrain. Shattered glass, water splattered on her shirt not blood. Ear piercing sound that drowns out his voice. Soft wool gripped in her hands. Fingers in her hair that do their best to shelter amid more peels of thunder and then it all goes quiet like the New York City sidewalk she’s standing on isn’t. 

A sharp intake. This way. This is the way she needs to go. And tired feet that have been traversing this city all night--she wills them to move from the dead stop the vision caused. The hood of her jacket pulled down further as she crosses the street and moves onward with the flow of other human beings trapped in their own bubbles.

---

That was hours ago. Now she stands at another street corner in a forgotten bit of concrete jungle. Staring up at the building that one day will be something else. A pity given the what it is. What she guesses it once was. It won’t ever see the glory days it once had. But so goes life right? Everything and everyone dies...eventually. 

A morbid thought all things considered. A deep breath drawn in. Shoulders drawn square with it and then allowed to sag with its escape. Hands in the pockets of her hoodie balled into nervous fists. Feet shuffling near balding soles on the concrete. She has to get every facet of this right. One tiny flaw and the future she sees that is best won’t happen. She’s got to be brave. She’s got--

Movement. A sky blue gaze that fixates on the silhouette coming clear of the building. Lips that she wets. Hands that fist all the harder, before one hand is pulled out. Set to her hood, that’s pushed back. Lips that are already dry again drawn into a thin line with the hard swallow she takes as one foot is put forward. Then another and another and so on until she comes to a stop a dozen feet from the man she’s only ever seen in clipped imagery. Another breath as she pushes out what she needs to say. No matter how much she wishes she sounded bigger than she does.

           “My name is Sasha Petrov...I think you’ve been looking for me?”