In Need of Assistance? (TF2)

        I bite the insides of my cheeks, anxiously awaiting the clock across the room to turn. If I get caught, it's surely going to be the pits for me. Scout got off with what was practically a slap on the wrist for being with Medic as Medic just healed him when they came back, but a broken arm is still a shit move on George's part. Getting woken up from my two-hour nap to see Scout generally unbothered by his bone sticking out of his skin put me right back to sleep for another hour, I didn't want to deal with anything at the time. Medic also said I was doing just fine for a walking dead woman after he looked me over, so I guess that means something.

I rise from my bed and tip-toe over to Maeve's closet, taking a pair of tennis shoes and tying them tightly on my feet. Pacing, a decision of whether or not I should take my pocket knife comes to mind. Maeve isn't a fan of the noise I'm making as she turns over and starts to snore. I stop pacing. The worst they can do is send me back to my room and warn Maeve about my behavior. She already knows that we're going to escape since I let it slip and told her not to think about it. We can't have that though. I take it from my nightstand drawer and adjust the underwire of my bra.

Shakily, my hand gently tugs on the door, the latch bolt clicking as it hits the strike plate. I freeze and wait a few moments before resuming my getaway. I'm met with memories of sneaking out at night with my friends in high school to go to the roller rank on Saturdays as they closed at two in the morning instead of at ten at night. We'd all meet up at the convenience store and exchange larger bills from work for smaller ones and change to be able to buy snacks and drinks easier in between songs.

I got away with this for two years before my parents did some chatting with the gas station attendant and found out about my schemes. I had my skates taken away for a whole year, but that didn't deter me. I just rented a pair instead and brought my own food. All I wanted to do was have a fun night out with friends. Sometimes I can still feel the bass of the track shaking my legs as we rounded the glossy floor and danced as best as we could, unable to keep up with the adults who had whole numbers planned out for their entire crew. My lungs ache as I reminisce about how hard we'd laugh while downing milkshakes and sharing a basket of fries.

Despite the fun I had, the walk back home would strip us of all glee we filled ourselves up with. It was quiet, dark, and some of the most terrifying times of my life. We never stopped walking, that was the first rule. The second rule was to stay in a group. They couldn't target one of us if we had all flocked. The third rule was to never speak a word so the sound of incoming danger would be heard well before it reached us. We'd usher ourselves through the dark streets, our skin-tone our camouflage as we avoided street lights, gas stations, bus stops, and porch lights. The wheels of our skates would clack as we sped through the neighborhood, trying our damndest to get back home and in our beds before the patrol car rolled by, or even worse: the Bookies. That's what we called them for the longest time: the Bookies. They went to a better school and had a better education than a large percentage of my entire neighborhood. They would oftentimes steal money from us so we'd be allowed to go home without causing trouble since they knew that we would never retaliate. The first time I ran into the Bookies was the easiest out of all of the times I encountered them later on. That was the first fight I ever got into and, I swore, at the time, that it was my last. I had pulled the hair of a brunette Bookie and used my skates to defend myself, leaving her bloodied and bruised on the pavement as I sprinted after my friends to catch up with them. She never ratted me out as to not admit that an Uppity had bested her in combat, but I was afraid for so long that I'd be escorted out of school with a bloodied nose and restrained hands one day because she snitched.

Vanguard is the Bookies. I jog and land on my toes, sticking close to the walls to remain in the shadows. Spy must've chosen this time because of a shift change for the night watchmen. My feet placement is meticulous as I don't know if there are any cameras. There can't be, can there? Scout and I got away with genuine murder, and George was clueless. He'll find out about it soon, though. We've got to get out before then. It's colder than I anticipated, wishing that I'd brought a jacket as goosebumps start to form on my arms. All I have is a tank top and the skirt I wore today to cover me. Neither does a decent job of warming me in the slightest. I slow my descent by the stairs and hunch down, peering around both corners before running with a ducked head straight to the common room. I walk into the well-lit kitchen and spot Engie resting on his haunches near the incinerator.