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Working Progress

By libby296

2.2K 5 6

A story about a girl whose life doesn't seem to give her any answers, and where life itself wants to control... More

Working Progress
Uploading File
Enter Text Here
Message not Sent
Message Pending
Message Sent
After The Tone
On Hold
Enter PIN
Touch To Start
Cock, Pull, Fire, Repeat.
System Error
Alarm-Snooze
Alarm Bells
Searching For Destination
Delayed
Target Located
Arrivals
Behind The Yellow Line
Recorded
Admit One
Undo Button?
*Cynthia Sparrowhawk's Blog*
-Options-
Enterprise
Do You Want To Continue?
Transaction Error
You Are Here
Check In
Priorities
Reoccuring Error
Return To Sender
Refresh Button
Missing Person
Kilobytes
Even Less Than A Kilobit
Held Hostage
Are You Sure You Would Like To Quit?
New Tricks
Buckle Your Seat-Belt
Unfinished Project
Author Acknowledgements

Departures

41 0 0
By libby296

They just made it. A pair of tinted sunglasses had been an inch from the automatic doors as they'd slammed shut - too close: Cynthia had become slack. Panting, they slid onto a couple of seats opposite each other, 2 on either side of a table and dumped their bags on the seat next to them. Cynthia looked at Marc with new eyes, that kid had been amazing!

Almost as if he wasn't a technician-for-life...

"Where are we going again?" Marc asked and Cynthia had to refrain from assaulting him. He may have saved her skin, but hell would freeze over before she admitted it. Instead she just opted for rolling her eyes and pointing it out once again.

Cynthia Sparrowhawk had more than one headquarters, over the years she'd acquired disused buildings and recruited fellow rebels. Not all the rebels survived, not all of them stayed loyal. Cynthia considered Marc again, he was reading the timetable book with great interest.

"Photographic memory," he murmured out loud, glancing Cynthia's way in answer to her unasked question.

"Okey dokey, whatever." Cynthia leaned back in her seat and watched the world roll by her window; how many people out there were happy with life?

"Excuse me."

Cynthia looked up, beside her were two elderly ladies.

"No." A short and sweet answer.

"But..." Marc hesitated.

"No."

"Cynth..."

"Marc." A pause. "No."

He stared at her as if judging why and then made a move as if to knock his duffel bag to the floor - instead he pulled out his taser.

Cynthia was already ready.

She knew he'd turn.

Join the ladies whom she knew very well to be life's agents.

"Sorry about this," he said and ripped off the wig of one of the ladies. What happened next could have been written by one of the world's worst screenplay writers. It was, of course, one of the men. The man snarled and pulled out a neatly polished pistol, his partner, with the purple rinsed wig, did the same.

"This appears to be our stop." Cynthia uttered sharply, grabbing Marc's hand. Hastily she asked," do you trust me?"

"Well, duh!" He answered.

He really shouldn't: Cynthia thought to herself.

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