Ten long years of her life had been eaten up by her work and what did she have to show for it? Nothing. Emma hugged her black parker closer to her body, shivering as a gust of wind hit her small frame. Under a dark hat she'd stuffed her hair inside and tugged it low, ditched her reading glasses and dressed herself in a pair of jeans that sported several tears in them and a t-shirt. Nothings screamed 'look at me' which is just what she wanted.
This was a far cry from her 'comfortable' day to day life, she thought wryly. She'd been the brain, the one everyone depended on, specializing in pharmaceuticals. Young and naive, she'd been striving to make the world a better place...a place where drugs could be affordable again and the sick could be cared for once again. Forget this rationing. The general public would have a way...some hope.
That was weeks ago...2 weeks and 3 days to be exact when she had gotten word of the true plan behind the work she had plunged herself into and walked away from the company with a disk hidden in the safety of her bra. Her bra! Anger had bubbled over and then panic. She'd only copied her data in hopes of finding out the big picture of the corporations plan. Then she would have to find the cure...ironically, a cure in which she had been working on to begin with.
"They'll hunt you down like a dog, Em."
Simon had warned her when he'd gotten wind of her plan.
"I can't let them get away with this."
She'd argued back,
"Imagine it! Men, women and children are rapidly dropping like flies...if this gets out. If it's what I think it is the populations will dwindle further. And then what? Hmmm? It could be your kids, Simon. Your wife. I'm not going to let that happen."
And hung they did. The Special Forces were everywhere, questioning, scanning. Living in constant state of fear and nerves was exhausting. She hadn't eaten or slept in days, traveled through the seedy, dark alleyways of the city and stayed to herself. No contact with friends or family.
Prim and proper little Emma Hopson...a fugitive. She almost laughed out loud at herself. Nerdy Emma who usually had her nose stuck to a computer screen or her eyes fixed under a microscope. What did she know about the streets? Not much, but she was damn proud of herself for doing this well for this long. However, hunger and fatigue were getting the best of her. She wanted out of the cold and into the warmth.
Eying the small bar ahead, Emma looked around quickly and made her way over, holding onto her hat as another gust of wind picked up. Her stomach knotted with nerves as she peaked into the small establishment and 'casually' took a gander around the place. No Special Forces, just your average drunks.
Walking in fully, she headed to the restroom first in hopes of warming up her hands under some hot water and taking care of some basic hygiene before drowning the cold inside with something alcoholic.
****
Hansen had dropped off The Package and received a tidy sum for it. "Fat fuck" was actually a dissident leader who'd informed on his own group to the Special Police Forces. The shed where he'd handed him over was full of angry looking people. There were saws, hammers, electric prods....
It didn't look like fat fuck was going to have a very pleasant night.
Fuck him.
He stood outside the shed, on the edge of a pier. The black, oily water was calm below him, the rain droplets making dimples all over its surface. He took the fake badges off the sleeves of his shirt.
Poor old fat fuck.
He'd thought Hansen was government, come to get him. He placed the badges in one hand and squeezed them up. He leaned back and pitched them into the water.
Selling out your mates wasn't a good idea. Especially if they find out. Hansen had been sold out by one of his own.
And he'd found out.
The motherfucker didn't live to regret his mistake. He'd died with a grenade in his mouth. "Cat got your tongue?" was the last thing Hansen had said to him before his head had disappeared in different directions.
Now it was going to be fat fuck's time.
Fuck you, fat fuck.
He smirked. If he'd asked for payment by the kilo, then it might been an even more lucrative job.
You're a card, Hansen.
But as he looked down on the water, his look was grim. There was no humour in his eyes. He turned away from the edge of the pier and looked towards the lights of the city.
"I need a fucking beer," he muttered, and strode away from the shed.
It's your funeral, fat fuck, and I'm not going.
*****
Hansen headed to his favorite bar. He only had two rules when it came to bars; they had to be dark and they had to serve beer. It made it pretty easy to find one.
No point limiting your options.
Here in the concrete facades of the city, the wind collected and funneled down the streets. Hansen pushed against the irregular cold gusts of wind, the rain driving into his face like icy pin pricks. His cheeks were going numb.