The ashes of Edmund Howes slipped through Beatrice's fingers. The smoldering remains of his body lay on the ground. Her expression remained still. She was previously a killer, but now she was a murderer.
Alex was surprised, shocked, even. Though she was also impressed—with her strength, yes—but most of all, her resolve. She approached the renegade, noticing her wounds and deducing how much energy that spell must've taken.
"...You okay there?" she asked.
Beatrice briefly assessed her wounds.
"Yes," she responded. "These wounds aren't lethal."
"Still, should prolly get you to a med," the mercenary said. "I know a place. Let's... Let's get outta here, a'ight?"
Beatrice nodded, and they left the room. They descended through the many floors of the building, walking past the unconscious bodies of soldiers. As they walked out the front door, Beatrice stopped, her vision darkening.
"I... expected to feel a lot of things," she said. "When I killed him, I thought I'd feel sorrow, guilt, anger, grief..."
Alex noticed the renegade's pale skin get paler still. Should keep her talking, she thought.
"An' how do you actually feel?"
"Tired," she responded, almost whispering.
Fuck, not good, Alex thought.
"Gimmie those bandages," she said. "I'll patch you up, just... Keep talkin'."
Beatrice sat against the wall of the building, reaching into a pocket and producing from it a roll of gauze. Alex began applying the bandages with great care. Beatrice felt her senses dull. Her mind fogged up like a window in winter. The metallic smell of blood was carried away by the cold winds of Rooksbury.
"I have nothing left," she said, voice dwindling. "Edmund was right. I can't return to Vezenia, and the Emperor's eyes would find me in any other nation."
Alex finished wrapping her arm, and said:
"Rooksbury's full a' people like you. Anyone who's runnin' from somethin' winds up 'ere."
Beatrice laughed quietly.
"So that's all I am now..." her vision quickly faded. "Just another refugee in a city of bandits."
Alex hesitated, then said:
"Look... You-"
Beatrice fainted.
Alex recalled her training, recognizing that death was unlikely. As the mercenary continued to bandage the renegade's wounds, she thought about the city. She'd seen what Rooksbury does to idealists, to good people with good intentions. The city chips away at their souls, until there's nothing left. She remembered a certain quote, though she didn't remember where she'd first heard it. "In Rooksbury, you either die with integrity or live in depravity."
Alex hadn't always been a killer, but the city took everything from her, until all she had left was weapons. She wondered what the city would do to the renegade slumped before her. She would probably become just as fucked as she was. Though, maybe not. Maybe the city wouldn't bother playing with its food, and Beatrice Woodhearth would be just another body in the river.
As Alex finished the bandages, she thought about Ross, about the Jackals, about the Outlaws and Jason... this time, it was supposed to be just her. Just business. Just weapons. Nothing else. No one else.
Alex sighed and carried the unconscious renegade away from the building.
The comfort of a mattress and the warmth of a blanket. Gods, how she'd missed that. After so many nights spent in sleeping bags, she'd wanted nothing more than to sleep in a bed. She remained still for minutes, perhaps hours. As she slowly drifted into awareness, she noticed this was not the cashmere and eiderdown of home, nor the nylon and bivy of the barracks. This was polyester fabric and synthetic foam. Slowly, the feelings and senses gave way to coherent thoughts and memories. Strangely, she couldn't recall falling asleep. She opened her eyes, seeing a sliver of her surroundings, and not recognizing them. Her training jolted her awake, and she shot up to a sitting position. Where was she?
Beatrice looked around. The room seemed to be a bedroom. There was a wardrobe, a paper-covered desk, a bookshelf, and a few other items of furniture. A few posters of bands she'd never heard of decorated the room, and a window was the only source of light present. Beatrice approached it and looked out.
Concrete spires gave way to a rocky shore, wooden docks and small ships scattered about. She was quite high up; at least six stories. Far into the sea was a colossal gray structure, similar to a chimney. Vapor flowed from the top. She recognized it as the Cheirock Power Plant, the arcane reactor that powered most of Rooksbury.
Memories of the day prior slowly seeped into her mind. She was a murderer. Gods, she was a murderer... No. It was not the time to think of that. She was in an unknown location, which could very well be hostile. She remembered her wounds, and noticed they were now bandaged. She was also wearing civilian clothes: a baggy graphic t-shirt and black sweatpants.
She moved away from the window and warily approached the door that led out of the room. She opened it with care, and was met with the sight of a corridor with another door across her, and a living room at its opposite end. From the corridor, she could see a small couch, and an old television set on the ground. As she walked into the room, a small open kitchen was revealed to her left, along with another door. To her right, a large window through which the first lights of day shined through, and an electric guitar that was left leaning against a wall. She was in what seemed to be a normal home. She tried to consider the implications of that, when her train of thought was interrupted by a voice, approaching from the door to her left. She quickly yet silently ruffled through the drawers of the kitchen, grabbed the first knife she found, and positioned herself next to the door, waiting. The voice approached, strangely familiar. It got closer, closer... Movement. The door opened, and Beatrice lunged at the figure that emerged from it, attempting a grapple. The figure jumped backward, dodging her advance, and as Beatrice's eyes met with theirs, she dropped the knife. She tried to string together a sentence, but repeatedly stuttered instead. The figure, or rather, Alex Strider, snickered and said:
"Mornin', Sunny."
"Strider!? I-!" Beatrice paused for a moment, trying to recompose herself. They both looked at the knife on the floor, then at each other.
"Sorry," the renegade sheepishly said. She then briefly looked around and asked:
"This is your residence?"
"Yeah. It was this or a payin' for a stay at the doc's," the mercenary responded, walking into her apartment.
Beatrice paused for a few moments, then in an attempt to maintain formality, said:
"Thank you for your assistance. If may point me to my belongings, I'll be on my way."
Alex sat on the windowsill of the large window on the wall opposite the door. She gestured to the couch, as if telling Beatrice to sit. She hesitantly complied. Though she did not show it, great doubt struck the mercenary. Was she really about to do this?
"...D'ya know anyone in Rooksbury?"
Beatrice tilted her head in confusion at the purpose of the question. She then corrected this behavior and said:
"No. My only contacts were Imperial ones."
Alex asked another question:
"Got a place to stay, at least?"
The renegade now understood what the mercenary was doing. She responded:
"I billeted an ethanol brewery, but that's likely to be the first place the Empire looks for me. I can't stay there, not for longer than a few days."
Alex took a deep breath. Yes, she realized; she was really about to do this.
"You're a homeless fugitive, and you got no connections or cred in this city. More'n that, you're in Rooksbury. Survival's a full-time job 'ere, and you ain't got experience. You're good as dead..."
Beatrice didn't respond.
"...Unless you stay with me. 'Least 'til you get settled in, an' start understandin' how this town works."
Beatrice had many, many questions. One, however, stood out among them. She asked it:
"Why?"
"Like I said, survivin' in-"
Beatrice interrupted Alex, asking in a voice which seemed confused, almost hurt:
"Why would you care about what happens to me?"
Alex paused. She'd asked herself the same question, and she responded with the only answer she could find:
"I guess... I ain't seen a lotta people like you before. You give a fuck. No one in Rooks' does that. Shit, I figured you doin' it 'cause you thought you'd get a promotion, or 'cause of some fucked-up trauma response to your first kill... Then ya killed a guy who was offerin' you a promotion. Knowin' you were beyond fucked if you did it, and knowin' you couldn't do it without killin', you did somethin', just 'cause you thought it was right. Just 'cause you cared. I don't wanna see you become just another body in the river, an' if I don't do anythin', you're gonna. Not 'cause you're wanted, or 'cause you ain't got connections, but because you're in Rooksbury, an' Rooksbury's no city for heroes."