Notes1: I love Evan. Really. Poor Mira.
Dedication: I can't even remember...
Notes2: High school is an utter waste of time.


Being trapped is one of Mira's worst fears. Trapped in a cage; trapped in a dead-end-job; trapped in the life her mother lived – little more then a servant to her father; just trapped. She is terrified of it.

And she and Evan are trapped in a world of loading screens; trapped in a car, lost in fog. Mist obscures the world around them; anything and everything more then ten feet in front of them is entirely hidden in thick, white haze. Mira watches Evan's elegant artist's hands clench the steering wheel – his knuckles are going as white as the mist, she muses.

Running, again. It is his twentieth birthday today, and they are running, again. Running from everything; from the girls he had loved and lost; from the people she had killed; from whom they both had ever, ever been, who they ever were. That was a long time ago, and running is what they do best.

Mira is eighteen, and she is still sickened with herself every time she watches the light go out in someone's eyes. It is not a pleasant experience. She knows the best she can do is run – and there is always work for a killer-for-hire, always. Her talents are the type that go out of style; people with money always have time, and revenge is just so very fashionable.

The window is cold against her skin. Drops of moisture condense around the rim of the glass, beading along like little glass diamonds, and Mira pretends not to notice as she traces her name –M-I-R-A; her real name, for once – she has taken so very many names in her life– in the condensation. She is quietly thankful that this stolen hover-car is of good quality, and that the equipment stored in the trunk is safe and dry – away from the mist that would short-circuit it, destroy it at its very core.

Mira ignores the fact that the small child curled up, sleeping soundly, is truly what she is worried about. She shoots a quick glance at little girl. She is no more then seven, and Mira knows that she is staring at her youngest sibling in a terse silence.

Evan has not questioned Mira's sudden need to bring this little one along with them – Mira is a creature of instinct, and it is not, has never been, part of Evan's nature, to question. Mira would be the one to breathe a soft sigh of relief when the child did not question this need, either.

The mist presses in from all sides, and it is quiet in the interior of the hover-car.

"Get some sleep, Mira," says Evan, knuckles still clenched white on the wheel.

Mira stares out the cold, misty window, and says nothing.