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fate - Preacher Maria

There had been a moment, in the first spurt of chaos, that her flight or fight response had kicked in. For Preacher, this meant fists balling up, muscles tensing, and alarms going off in her head before she even moved. Fight or flight. She didn't run away, couldn't - running meant putting her back to the enemy, being vulnerable in ways she wasn't ever ready to be. Preacher had learned the hard way that running was always a bad idea, even if fighting meant she'd ended up with both eyes blacked and a head that knew too intimately the feel of concrete. Even so, Preacher had run, recently, to Ashdown, and she had a lot of not-running to do to make up for the shame of that. It crawled down her spine every time she crawled into her tent, whispered into her mess of black hair every time she walked into some unfamiliar store. You ran, like the frightened child you are.

Deliberately, she took a slow breath, not paying attention to the slow slide of blood down the side of her head. Brown eyes watched as a few groups broke off, went up the stairs - no doubt in search of additional help, or answers, or maybe even the suspect. Mentally, she cataloged who went were; those whose names she didn't know were assigned characteristics. Of their own will, her footsteps turned that way too, and she deliberately halted them. What could she do there except get in people's way? She'd make an attractive speed bump while impeding someone and that was it. Her hands itched to strike against something - a cocktail of fear and anger bubbling up inside of her. When she thought about it, a monster's face seemed the perfect place for her knuckles. Finally, she sighed, shoulders slumping forward. She wanted, but Preacher did not go upstairs; she stayed on the first floor, turning away from the group.

If she was so useless, why was she even here?

Preacher knew herself - she was nosy, tenacious: like a dog with a bone. She'd gnaw on it until it splintered, shattered into small white pieces, and then swallow them whole until the pieces lodged in her belly and became a part of her. She'd find a use for herself if she had to carve it out of her own skin. It was a little ******** extreme of a metaphor, but the fear of worthlessness curled in her gut. The press of people flickered before her eyes. Wounded leaned on each other, the dead left bright, sticky pools that would stain the floor for years, those able to were helping. Nurses, brave people, useful. Squaring her thin shoulders, she started forward, feet tapping out purposefully against the ground. She had no clue what she was going to do, but, by ******** god, she'd do something. Preacher would stay on the slim chance she could be more than useless, and less than a burden. She'd stay because she couldn't run, not ever again.

the choices - Preacher Maria

Perhaps if she could have heard more than the muffled thumps and words, she might have worried. A contagion - of what? But Preacher was wrapped in the softer sounds underneath the first floor: the drip of mystery water, the scuff of feet against a concrete floor, the hushed words of people fumbling around. Somehow, she had always found it easy to focus on one thing, to isolate what was in front of her from the chaotic atmosphere above. Preacher compartmentalized.

Of course, some part of her wondered what was going on. She'd seen Mercer go upstairs and not heard from him since. Maybe she should have followed, made use of herself there. She'd make an okay meat shield, she supposed. But he was someone who could take care of himself, and maybe she'd decided that on a whim, but she felt it was true. She trusted everyone in this town, on a superficial basis, until she was hurt. And then, that was that.

She swallowed a sigh and swallowed any curiosity about the upstairs. They would all get out because there was no other alternative. It wasn't feasible to believe they'd be quarantined forever, so she didn't. The escalation to panic wasn't reasonable, so she didn't. Preacher took a deep breath.

the choices - Preacher Maria


She flicks the ash off of her cigarette gracefully. (In the 'future', Preacher is always smoking a cigarette - she's elegant, and comely, and she smokes even though Preacher's never smoked before. Nor ever will. Consider it the bad influence of too many film noirs that here, in this scenario, she's smoking.) She blows a plume of grey smoke up to the ceiling. They gather around her, because they've seen her and they know if anyone knows what went down, it's her. Because when she thinks about it, daydreams up a what-if, everything is full of tension and drama and the way light shines between the blinds to land across a woman's face, turning her eyes into gems. In the what-if, she's more important that she's ever been or will ever be.

"Darlings," she says and Preacher's never said that word in her life, not with such a drawl, despite her normal accent. "I simply didn't see, ya know. I was busy and in the darkest basement you could ever imagine. Preacher is simply not an idiot, my dears. So I was busy finding a way out." She takes another drag as one man whispers in another's ear. She watches them from the corner of her eyes.

Finally, she moves, uncrossing and recrossing her legs as she perches on the reception desk of the police department. "You didn't think it would be so easy, did you?" A smile flirts with the corners of her lips. "You should know that I keep my secrets close to my chest." She leans forward, highlighting such a chest.

"You'll have to try harder than that."