Marja ran. First away, then to feel the wind in her--her hair, and then in chase. She heard the quarry's panting breaths, the crack of brush underfoot, smelled blood and fear. It knew her, knew she was coming, and Marja exalted in its terror. Marja tensed, leaped--
And she, Martha James, woke. She'd jammed her stocky body under a log in some green fuzz of forest; moss and dirt caked her broad face and made her short hair heavy. Mar--Martha pulled herself free and sat up. She frowned down at her body and slammed a fist down on her naked thigh.
"Not again!"
Martha jammed her coat into her locker; her other hand hung heavy with the weight of her gun belt and flack jacket. She glanced behind the open door, but no one stood just out of sight to laugh at her once she slammed it shut. Maybe they were all still in the bullpen. Martha slammed her locker shut.
"Hey, slacker," said a voice close behind her. Martha closed her eyes. Salty cologne, stale donuts, burnt coffee, scabbed wounds.
"Hello, asshole," Martha said as she turned. She met Nick's eyes without tilting her head to look up at him. He backed off a few steps, but his grin didn't shrink.
"Missed you at the morning meeting. Chief says you'll bring donuts tomorrow." Martha pushed past him to give herself room. He held her gun belt while she put on the jacket.
"I would bet it was bagels, and she's got to know that'll just make me later." She took the belt and buckled it over her jacket. "You didn't get my gun?" He shook his head; Nick followed as she led the way to gear lockup.
"What kept you?" he said. He bumped into her when she stalled. Couldn't find her way, bare-ass and bewildered, out of Podunk at that sacred, shitty time of day after the pizza joints closed and before the gas stations opened.
"Couldn't sleep," she said.
Martha jotted some half-readable variant of her name on the requisition sheet's dotted line, and then slid the paper back under the window. One gun, ten clips. Firing even once meant paperwork for at least an hour--and certainly more, now. "They announced this today?" Nick leaned against the painted cinderblocks while she holstered the gun and zipped away the clips she'd keep on her person today.
"Yeah," he said. "Chief wanted to see you about it, until I pointed out you left it here already."
"I doubt it was this one," Martha said. "Mine was wrecked in that misfire, you remember?" Nick tilted his head.
"Do you? Gun blows up in your hand, and you just keep on running. Surprised you didn't lose a finger." Martha shrugged.
"People know... things are going to break. So they make them to break in the safest way. I guess. Come on." She led him out of the precinct and to their car. They'd tussled over the driver's seat, but never to the point of assignments or rotations, like some partners. Now Martha took the wheel and Nick slid in on the other side. He put his hand over hers after she started the car.
"Wait," he said. "You're sure you're okay? Nothing going on?"
"You just want to drive." Martha kept her eyes on the white wave of hood in front of her.
"Bullshit. Listen." She kept her eyes fixed in front of her; he sighed. "I don't need a bro--I don't care if you turn on at shift start and go to sleep mode in a closet somewhere after we're done. You don't need to bring in donuts, and you don't need to barhop with us. But if something's wrong, if you're out of it, you gotta tell me. I don't want to know what, but I do need to know whether it's gonna get us hurt. You pull too much risky shit already."
"Can we go?" Nick threw himself back into his seat. He wrenched at the seatbelt, cursed at it when it locked up, and shoved the fastener home anyway. The belt cut across him at the waist and chest, biting into his throat.
"Yeah, we can go," Nick said. "We have a wellness check to make."
And she, Martha James, woke. She'd jammed her stocky body under a log in some green fuzz of forest; moss and dirt caked her broad face and made her short hair heavy. Mar--Martha pulled herself free and sat up. She frowned down at her body and slammed a fist down on her naked thigh.
"Not again!"
Martha jammed her coat into her locker; her other hand hung heavy with the weight of her gun belt and flack jacket. She glanced behind the open door, but no one stood just out of sight to laugh at her once she slammed it shut. Maybe they were all still in the bullpen. Martha slammed her locker shut.
"Hey, slacker," said a voice close behind her. Martha closed her eyes. Salty cologne, stale donuts, burnt coffee, scabbed wounds.
"Hello, asshole," Martha said as she turned. She met Nick's eyes without tilting her head to look up at him. He backed off a few steps, but his grin didn't shrink.
"Missed you at the morning meeting. Chief says you'll bring donuts tomorrow." Martha pushed past him to give herself room. He held her gun belt while she put on the jacket.
"I would bet it was bagels, and she's got to know that'll just make me later." She took the belt and buckled it over her jacket. "You didn't get my gun?" He shook his head; Nick followed as she led the way to gear lockup.
"What kept you?" he said. He bumped into her when she stalled. Couldn't find her way, bare-ass and bewildered, out of Podunk at that sacred, shitty time of day after the pizza joints closed and before the gas stations opened.
"Couldn't sleep," she said.
Martha jotted some half-readable variant of her name on the requisition sheet's dotted line, and then slid the paper back under the window. One gun, ten clips. Firing even once meant paperwork for at least an hour--and certainly more, now. "They announced this today?" Nick leaned against the painted cinderblocks while she holstered the gun and zipped away the clips she'd keep on her person today.
"Yeah," he said. "Chief wanted to see you about it, until I pointed out you left it here already."
"I doubt it was this one," Martha said. "Mine was wrecked in that misfire, you remember?" Nick tilted his head.
"Do you? Gun blows up in your hand, and you just keep on running. Surprised you didn't lose a finger." Martha shrugged.
"People know... things are going to break. So they make them to break in the safest way. I guess. Come on." She led him out of the precinct and to their car. They'd tussled over the driver's seat, but never to the point of assignments or rotations, like some partners. Now Martha took the wheel and Nick slid in on the other side. He put his hand over hers after she started the car.
"Wait," he said. "You're sure you're okay? Nothing going on?"
"You just want to drive." Martha kept her eyes on the white wave of hood in front of her.
"Bullshit. Listen." She kept her eyes fixed in front of her; he sighed. "I don't need a bro--I don't care if you turn on at shift start and go to sleep mode in a closet somewhere after we're done. You don't need to bring in donuts, and you don't need to barhop with us. But if something's wrong, if you're out of it, you gotta tell me. I don't want to know what, but I do need to know whether it's gonna get us hurt. You pull too much risky shit already."
"Can we go?" Nick threw himself back into his seat. He wrenched at the seatbelt, cursed at it when it locked up, and shoved the fastener home anyway. The belt cut across him at the waist and chest, biting into his throat.
"Yeah, we can go," Nick said. "We have a wellness check to make."
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