Fragile: Part 1

Paris slurped down the last of her coffee with a shuddering wince. It was cold, there was grime in the bottom of it, and it had to be at least five hours old. Too lazy to make her own, however, and too tired to think about it, she gulped down her hourly caffeine fix dutifully. She hadn't planned on staying so late. Of course, she'd never been good at planning.

Paris shuddered again and spit into the trashcan next to her desk, trying to rid the terrible taste from her mouth.

Whoever made that stuff should be burned at the stake!

Paris was a secretary for Vernon Greene, of the Greene, Hallow, and Bradley law firm. She wasn't working late to please her boss. In fact, she was typing out a story onto the computer at her desk. Though she wasn't a very good writer, sometimes ideas filled her head and she had to do something with them or she knew she'd go crazy. So here she was at ten past one in the morning, typing frantically. She didn't have a computer at home, and rather than wasting money she didn't have on buying one, she worked here. Greene knew what she did and graciously allowed it, as long, he said, as Paris wasn't goofing off during working hours.

The computer suddenly gave a burp and shut off. The ancient monitor whined shrilly. Paris jumped to her feet, whacking it, hoping beyond hope that it would come back on.

She'd been typing for the past three hours. She had been caught up in her writing, and had not saved it once. Paris felt a hollow despair as the ideas and the words deserted her, disappearing like a wispy shadow. Paris sighed and shut off the monitor with an angry jab as she stood to her feet, stretching her long, slim legs, which ached from disuse. She put on her tennis shoes, grabbed her backpack, and exited through the glass double-doors. On her way out, she locked up, heading out into the icy silence of the night, and the heavy darkness that seemed ready to crush her.


# # # #

Gage Slater didn't want to look back. He was afraid, if he did, that he'd trip and fall.

If that happened and his pursuers caught up with him, he was going to die. In the most literal sense. Gage swore as he raced into an alley: he'd taken a wrong turn. He was in a dead end. "Idiot," he whispered harshly. He heard the running footsteps of his pursuers coming closer, their sharp steps like explosions in the piercing silence.

A ladder. He needed a ladder. Even a fire escape. Gage saw neither, but he was used to improvising, so this didn't bother too much. He looked around, desperately forcing his mind to search for a way out, even as his pursuers came close enough for him to hear their soft breaths. Not good. When they found this alley he was toast.

His experienced eyes roved over his moonlit surroundings, and saw his way of escape. To his left there was a trashcan. About nine feet above that was a window ledge. A big jump, but one he could make. If he followed the ledge, he would get to another, where he could climb onto the roof and get down the other side of the building.

He'd lost two seconds thinking about it. Gage leaped onto the trashcan with feline agility, jumping up to grab the ledge, not willing to lose another second.

You should have been a gymnast, old boy, he thought to himself caustically.

Now standing upright on the first ledge, Gage saw that the second was farther away than he'd hoped. To his left and above him another nine feet, it would take a strong sideways jump to land him on it.

Gage shifted his weight. With a scrape, a loose brick wobbled under his feet. Gage was going to fall if he didn't make the jump now. Leaning to the right first, he then sprung left, and up, his hands reaching out for the ledge. If he didn't make it...

He smiled acidly as he jumped. His mind supplied him with boundless gruesome images of what might happen. His fingers touched the ledge, and locked down on it. Arms aching with fire, Gage hissed a breath in when his body jarred downward, his weight and the force he'd put into the jump making it hurt even more. But he was there. He'd made it. And his triumph erased the pain.

Again, Gage swung his lower body up to the ledge.

"There he is!" screamed a man. "Shoot him down!"

No. He was too close. Gage landed his feet awkwardly on the ledge, and pulled up in desperation. If he could get to the ledge, it was only a few feet to the roof.

An explosion filled the narrow space.

A burning, tearing agony surged from Gage's arm to his shoulder, and his body tensed up, suddenly weak, his hands releasing their grip on the ledge.

More than eighteen feet from the ground, Gage plummeted down. As he hit, and right before unconsciousness mercifully swallowed him up, he heard the voice of a man, twisted with sadistic glee. "This isn't the end of it, Gage."

# # # #

Paris' car was a rattling, grating piece of junk that should have been made into scrap metal a decade ago. She loved it, though. The seats were thick and when you sat down into them you sank. The air conditioner worked when it mattered most, but not much more, and the car had plenty of space. She wouldn't have given it up for anything.

Paris backed out of her parking slot at the law firm. Hers was the worst, the one with the bump that left any car parked there tilted up at an angle. With a thump, the car clattered onto level ground, and she did an illegal u-turn in the parking lot. Yawning, Paris pressed down on the gas pedal, her mind oozing sweet thoughts of home and deep sleep.

# # # #

Gage flickered to and from consciousness like a candle in the wind. When he awoke, he'd see the men above him. The first one, tall as far as he could tell, with mostly dark hair going gray, was dragging him somewhere. The man had both of his arms, and Gage's head hung limply between them. Pain surged through him. Please stop! He wanted to scream. His entire body sizzled with agony. He didn't know what he'd broken in the fall, didn't care as long as this just stopped. "Please..." he slurred. Unconsciousness took him again. Blackness slammed down on his vision.

Peace.

When he opened his eyes again, he had stopped moving. The pain was worse than ever now that he'd settled down. His muscles were just realizing the extent of the damage inflicted on them, and they protested when he tried to reposition himself. More than protested. Gage's whole body locked up in an agonizing spasm. He moaned.

Suddenly, somewhere near him, Gage heard a soft scrape. Someone was still here.

Gage remembered the tall man's words: "It's not over yet, Gage."

What more could they do to him? There was no possible way to feel more pain than he was feeling right now... Was there? The thought filled him with an empty kind of dread.

"No..." His plea trailed off into silence. He fell into the dark oblivion once again, well aware that he shouldn't be fading in and out like he was, but not caring. If he woke up again, it would only be to his own death. The last thing he was aware of was of the damp cold of the concrete he was on, and the smell of rot.

# # # #

Paris hummed along with the radio. She had soft rock on. It was the only station that was coming in on her car radio, and it wasn't too bad.

Babying the car, Paris took it the quick way home, between the office buildings and the other looming structures, going no more than twenty miles per hour through the maze of streets and alleys. It was dark here, and more dangerous, but her life was so dull that she didn't expect any of the crazy stuff to happen to her.

Bumbling from one thought to the next, Paris fought to keep her heavy eyes open. She saw something curious on the road, and pulled the car to a stop. A mirror? Was that a mirror in the road?

Trying to adjust her blurred vision, Paris leaned forward in the seat to get a better view of the object in the road. As her eyes adjusted, she realized it was not a mirror at all, but just her headlights reflecting off of a puddle. She mumbled to herself, "Boy that was dumb, Paris!" And she started to drive again, slowly. With her lights out of the way as she passed the puddle, she was able to see it more clearly for what it was.

There were long, dragging marks of the same liquid marking the road in a trail that led down an alley and into the darkness.

With horror, and a surge of adrenaline that brought her to a buzzing awareness, Paris realized the puddle was blood. It was still fresh. For a moment she couldn't breathe. Her heart wanted to explode inside of her. She got out.

Uh...Reality check? When did you get so dumb?

She followed the trail, afraid of what she might find. She gripped her backpack so hard her hand ached, but still she went on. Why oh why did she have to be such an idiot?

# # # #

The man worked quickly. He was careful not to let Gage's blood stain his clothing; it would be conspicuous when he made his exit. The man lifted Gage's body off of the ground. Still unconscious, Gage groaned. The man almost felt sorry for the boy. He was so talented.... So innocent.

But it was his job.

His feelings didn't matter: he did what he was told and that was how he got paid. Sympathy meant poverty. Ruthlessness, in this twisted world, was what paid the most. And so many people were looking for his services.

Gage suddenly opened his eyes. He looked up at the man, who carefully showed no emotion, and they met straight with the man's hooded ones, digging painfully deep. The man stared until Gage's gaze broke as he groaned in pain. He cried out, and there was so much pain in his posture and in his voice that the man turned away. The trunk of his car was already open. The river was only a few miles down the road. He could see it from here. The death would be quick, and impersonal; the kid's body would wash up on the shore, pumped full of Meth. The police would take it for what it looked like. A drug hit.

Gage's pleading eyes locked with the man's. God, this kid was so young. He couldn't have been twenty-three yet.

"What are you gonna...?" Gage knew what was going to happen to him, the man could tell.

"Please..."

The man dropped Gage's body into the trunk hard. He lifted the lid and slammed it on Gage's scream.

# # # #

Paris turned the corner in time to see the body fall into the trunk. She wanted to scream, but her throat was closed up. She wanted to move, but her brain didn't listen to her body's commands. She just stood there, completely still, illuminated by the wavering moonlight.

# # # #

The man stiffened when he heard the soft footsteps. Just as he slammed the trunk closed, a woman stepped around the corner. She was tall but with a clumsy and uncoordinated look about her, with twig-like arms and slender legs. Overall, he thought, she could have gained ten pounds and been the better for it.

He took out his gun. He was going to finish this. If it meant he had to kill her, then so be it.

She just stood there.

"Go away," the man said huskily. "This isn't your business." He wanted the least amount of mess possible. Another body would only complicate things.

The girl still didn't move.

"Go!" he said, jerking the gun.

Still, she stood there, like she was in shock or something.

He was going to have to kill her.

# # # #

Paris had only been fourteen when the man tried to mug her. She'd been walking home from school late on a Friday. She always walked home on Fridays, because her mom and dad always went out to dinner when they got off work at the end of the week. So it was nothing new to wander the same dark alleyways every week at dusk.

When the man had jumped out at her, wrapping a strong, crushing arm around her chest, Paris had known what was going to happen.

She'd acted on impulse then, out of fear for her life.

Now she acted the same way, out of fear for someone else's.

Since that Friday twelve years ago, Paris had always had a knife in her purse. It had been given to her by her father, but she'd never had to use it, keeping it there for a sense of security more than anything. Now she grabbed it, hiding it under her backpack.

The man got out of the car. He was holding a gun. Paris' hand shook. The knife wasn't going to get her anywhere.

She shouldn't have stopped. She should have stayed in her car and called the police, or better yet, just driven by.

The man looked at his gun. After a long moment, he put it down, and stepped forward. He probably thought it would be too noisy. Paris didn't move. She stayed still until he was just inches away.

"What are you doing to that man?" Paris whispered when he was close.

"Same thing I'm going to do to you," said the man.

"What's that?" Paris' hand tightened on the knife's handle. The man was close enough now. Her hand around the blade trembled.

Paris couldn't do it.

Suddenly she saw the blinding flash of light reflecting off of metal. The man arced a hand toward her, deftly switching his car keys to his left hand.

Paris simply reacted. She dropped the pack, slamming the blade into the man's chest. He stopped, shocked as his ribcage hit the hilt. He stared at the blade, touching it with quivering fingers, then slumped to the ground. In the second it took for Paris to realize what she had just done, she knew she had to get away. Her car was way too far away, and her mind had melded all the alleys together, so that she wasn't even sure which way she had come from. Grabbing up the man's fallen keys, Paris jumped into his car, slamming her foot down on the gas pedal and getting out of there.

# # # #

She drove out of the alley and back to the Law Offices of Greene, Hallow, and Bradley. It was only a few minutes. When she got there she was marginally calmer. Very calm considering the fact she'd just killed a man and taken his car. What was that, homicide and auto theft? No, manslaughter. Self-defense. Though she barely listened to Greene, she'd need his services soon.

Paris got out of the car, suddenly shaking uncontrollably. A moonlit face, twisted with pain, appeared in front of her. She shook the image away. You had to do it. She leaned up against the car for support, not daring to trust her legs. When she thought they might hold her, Paris popped the trunk, walking over and staring at the man inside.

"Are you okay?"

There was no reply. The man was unconscious, and under him, the shaggy cloth was stained and saturated completely with his own blood. He's going to bleed to death, girl, do something! Paris lifted him out. That got a reply. The man opened his eyes, staring at her with half-lidded uncertainty. She couldn't carry him, so he fell to the ground.

Paris went over, unlocked the firm's front door and raced inside, glancing around frantically for a first aid kit. Somewhere.... There! Down the hall when she entered the firm, right beside the bathroom door, and true to her memory, was a first aid kit.

Paris grabbed it off the wall, and raced outside. The man was on his stomach against the pavement, trying to lift himself up. "Come on," she said. "We need to get you in there."

She lifted him to his feet and he helped as much as he could. Opening the door with one hand, Paris pushed him in with the other, laying him down gently this time. The kit was open on the floor in a moment. She just needed to stop the bleeding for now. She could worry about everything else later. Taking some gauze, Paris unwrapped it, checking the man's pulse quickly and trying to find the worst cuts. Most of the smaller ones had congealed, but the larger ones oozed red. There were so many. The white tile floor was streaked with blood that thickened and moved between the cracks. Paris felt sick.

"What did you do to deserve this?" she mused aloud. She placed a thick pad over a long cut on his leg, wrapping a strip of gauze over tightly.

I can't do this. This man needs a doctor, not an amateur. But Paris realized that if she brought him to the hospital, she would have to answer a lot of questions, ones she thought were better left alone for the time being. Like why she killed someone.

So she continued to work silently.

# # # #

In the silence, between the two buildings, the man got to his feet. The knife stuck out of his chest, though he didn't dare touch it. He was still breathing. The knife apparently hadn't hit anything vital. The man pulled out his phone, dialing a number, and when someone answered, he said simply, "I need help." He gave directions and shut the phone, leaning against the wall, each second stretching out into an agonizing eternity.

# # # #

When she was sure that the man wasn't in imminent danger of bleeding to death, Paris sat back against the wall.

When she was little, she'd loved to help people; she told her mom and dad from age four to age sixteen she was going to become a doctor. Now she thought, You'll never take me alive!

When she'd bandaged the worst cuts, she'd cringed more than he had. Doctor was definitely off her list of dream professions. A daycare lady, maybe. That sounded good. Nonviolent.

The man opened his eyes. He tried desperately to get up, but fell back to the ground, clenching his teeth to hold in a scream.

"Where am I?" asked the injured man. "Who are you?"

Paris said, "You're in a building. I'm Paris, and stop trying to get up, I just bandaged you and I'm not going to do it again. I'm not going to kill you. Who are you?"

The man frowned, looking over her. "I'm Gage," he said after a long time. "What happened? That man was going to kill me."

It was Paris' turn to be silent. The question made her face the stark reality: she'd killed a man. A man who would have killed her, but still a human being, someone who felt pain. Paris felt sick. "He won't hurt you," she whispered.

# # # #

Gage heard the pain in the woman's voice, and could only speculate what caused it. Looking up at her, moving his head as little as possible, he tried to get a better look at the woman who'd helped him, but it hurt too much. Paris. That was a beautiful name.

Maybe he was biased, though. Once, a long time ago, he'd been to the city with his parents. He'd stared at the Eiffel tower at night, bathed in the eerie glow of blue moonlight, glowing like some ethereal object of worship. He smiled, and let his eyes drift closed.

Paris' voice broke in. "Why'd that guy try to kill you?"

Oh. Complicated question. Gage hurt too much to reply. He just shook his head. Give me some time... It wasn't unconsciousness that slowly overtook him. This time it was simple exhaustion. He closed his eyes, and drifted off into a nightmare that plagued him till morning.

# # # #

Paris awoke with a start to find that she had fallen asleep beside the man. Now that it was daytime, and she wasn't running on adrenaline, she took a better look at him.

He was definitely cute. Nice, sharp face, tan skin...

Um, sorry? There is a man in touble, with a million cuts and scrapes and maybe internal bleeding, and you're observing that he's cute when he may be dead. Great.

At the thought, Paris fumbled to check Gage's pulse, making sure that he hadn't died during the night. He was alive. Amazingly. And he stirred when she touched him. He awoke groggily, looking straight into her eyes. Paris was taken aback by their color. Gage had brown hair and a dark complexion, so she'd expected, naturally, that he'd have brown eyes too. But he didn't. They were blue. Such a light blue they may have been ice, with silvery streaks radiating outward.

"'Morning," he mumbled. He pulled himself very slowly to a sitting position.

"Uh, good morning." Paris looked at her watch. It was just about six: five fifty-eight. Very early, considering that she'd fallen asleep around one. For some strange reason she couldn't account for, she was wide awake.

Wait. Six. Paris lurched to her feet. "We have to get out! Bradley always comes in at six!" Greene was out with the flu, and Hallow was on vacation, but no matter what, Bradley always arrived punctually at six. He'd be there in moments. Paris grabbed Gage's arm, forgetting his condition for a moment.

Gage cried out, hissing something unintelligible through his teeth as Paris released him.

"I'm so sorry. I forgot... I'm... such an idiot. I'm sorry."

"'At's okay," Gage muttered. He stood up, testing his legs and his balance. Finally, he was upright. "Well, that's step one," he said dryly. "At least I can walk."

"We need to go," Paris repeated.

"Gimme a minute," Gage said. He took a step and gasped. Paris winced at the expression on his face. Obviously seeing her worry, Gage wiped his face clean of expression. "Okay, then. Let's get out of here."

Paris saw the rusty, dried blood stains on the wall where Gage had sat. Bradley would freak if he saw those! Paris grabbed a piece of paper from the desk nearest her, wet it in the bathroom, and started to wipe the blood up. Gage waited. Done after about a minute, she ran out to the car she'd stolen, and started it up. Gage swung into the passenger seat. A big mistake, it seemed. This time, he bore the pain he apparently felt without a sound.

Men.

# # # #

"He's still alive?" In the corner of the brightly lit room, the assassin sat stiffly as a fat man reamed him out. His ribs were bandaged tightly, and though it hurt to breathe, he kept a look of smug professionalism on his face.

"Yes," replied the assassin coldly. "However, he's injured, and we've got the word out to look for him at any hospital. If he shows up, then we'll be notified, and I can take him out."

The fat man's fleshy mouth was twisted into a grotesque line. He sipped expensive champagne from a crystal glass, dabbing at his lips with a kerchief. "I don't like incompetence, Liam. I will give you one more chance, and if you screw it up, I will kill you myself. What that boy knows could bring my whole reputation crashing down. Kill him, Liam. Soon."

"I will."

"Good. Now leave. I can't stand your kind. Tell me when he's dead, and you'll receive the second half of your payment."

Leaving a still full glass of champagne on the table, Liam got up, taking a last look at his effeminate, round employer. Hiding his disgust, he walked out of the room.

# # # #

Stopping her car at the dingy apartment she called home, Paris led Gage inside. "Sorry about the mess," she apologized, cheeks flushing as she saw his eyes roam around. He avoided a can of opened tuna, half eaten and raw on the living room floor, walking into her kitchen.

Suddenly, Paris heard a menacing hiss, and a growl. Diego! She'd forgotten to warn Gage! Diego was her fat yellow tabby, and he was as violent as he was ugly. Once, when Greene had been over, Diego had latched onto the poor man's hand and had not let go until Paris hit him with a broom. Apparently, Greene had gotten too near to Diego's food. "Gage!"

But when she ran into the kitchen she was met with a sight right out of the twilight zone. Diego was purring! Gage was sitting on the floor, and the fat feline was stretched out next to him, belly up.

"Nice cat," Gage told her. Gage withdrew his hand and Diego purred louder, grabbing at his newest friend with dull, house-cat claws. His manner fairly screamed, "Pet me!" Smiling, Gage obliged.

Paris simply couldn't form a comprehensible thought. "Wha--?"

Gage picked up Diego when he got up. The ball of yellow fur nuzzled Gage's chin.

"Diego hates everyone," Paris finally blurted out.

"I'd never have guessed."

Paris was dumbfounded. The cat only stood her because she fed him, and here he was, mingling with a complete stranger. The nicest Diego had ever been to any one person was to let that person stroke her once on the back before he pulled away. That had been Paris' landlady, Emma. Everyone liked Emma. But... "How are you doing that?"

"Hmm?"

"He's never let anyone rub his belly! He practically mauls any stranger who dares to get close to him. How are you doing that?"

Gage seemed confused. "He came to me." He shrugged. "Maybe he likes raw meat." Gage had been too still. Diego rubbed at him, begging for attention. "Crazy cat."

Still, Paris couldn't believe what she was seeing. "Um... Are you hungry? I can make some eggs."

"Nah. But thanks. I think I'll play with Diego for a while. I like cats."

Greene had liked cats too. At least, until one played piranha with him. Paris wasn't hungry either, so she just sat in speechless amazement, watching Gage. Finally, satiated, Diego stretched and got up, walking jauntily out of the kitchen.

Paris shook her head. "You are the first person who has ever touched Diego uninvited and come away unharmed."

Gage smiled, but it faded when he tried to get up. "Well... there's always a first time. I am kind of hungry. What do you have?"

"Peanut butter, jelly, bread, chicken; I can make one of two sandwiches. Can you guess what they are?"

Gage chose peanut butter and jelly, and Paris made one for herself, meeting him on the cluttered couch when she was done. She got up the courage to ask him what she'd been wondering since she found him. "This may not seem like a good time, but... What happened to you?"

# # # #

Paris Sullivan, 2450 Lakeside drive, apt #410. Liam had found the papers in the car the girl had left behind, along with a photo of four people, one of whom he had identified as Paris. He now had a picture and a home address. If she was there with Gage, then that would make his job vastly simpler. However, if she wasn't, he could find something to direct him to where she was. Either way, he had her.

Liam started the car up. The engine sputtered slowly to life. He didn't need the keys; the stupid girl had left them in the ignition. Yes, this was way too easy. Liam enjoyed having to actually look to find his prey, and the simplicity so far was disappointing. Well, sometimes they had to be easy. Besides, he was being well paid for this. Liam thought of Gage, and was pleased to find that he was himself again. He'd had some time to think last night, and he'd realized that Gage didn't matter to him any more: the boy had gotten himself deep into something bad, and he would die because of it. Liam whistled cheerfully as the excitement he usually felt about his work returned. He was looking forward to this. He started off to the girl's house.

# # # #

Gage sat on the sunken couch, stretched out as much as he could be. He didn't know how many Tylenol he'd taken, but it didn't matter. At least he could lay still without pain shooting through him. What had happened to him? He mulled over Paris' question. Should he tell her?

No. It might put her in danger.

Yeah, real funny. She's been in danger since the moment she stood up for you. Tell her and maybe she'll understand why.

"I can't tell you a lot."

Paris settled into the cushions. The couch gave a loud creak, and moved like it was going to collapse. Gage shifted, but remained seated. Paris said, "Please. Just tell me something."

Gage nodded, not meeting her eyes. "I... learned something. It concerns someone who everyone trusts, and if they knew what I figured out then he'd be dead, politically, socially, whatever. Maybe literally. I think..." His voice trailed off as he searched for the right words. "I think he hired someone to kill me because he knows I won't sit on it."

"Sit on what?" Paris looked at Gage expectantly.

I shouldn't have done this! I can't tell her what. I can't tell her who, either. She may know him! This is so stupid. Thank her and leave, now.

Gage got up, his mind reeling, body screaming at the pain that tore through him. "Look. I really shouldn't be doing this. You shouldn't have helped me. You're in trouble now, too. I have to leave." Getting out of the old, caved-in couch, he began to walk toward the door. He stumbled sideways after a few steps when he lost his sense of balance, feeling unusually lightheaded, like his body was the only thing anchoring him to consciousness.

"Gage!" Paris was on her feet, her angular face displaying all her emotions; confusion, worry, surprise. "What are you doing?" Paris asked, following behind him questioningly.

"I'm sorry. I..." His vision darkened. It seemed like someone had a controller and had turned the brightness way down. It only flickered like that for a moment, and he walked when he knew he could. He made it to the door, sure that what had just happened was simply a result of too little sleep, too much Tylenol, and standing up too fast. He felt fine when he began walking down the stairwell to the bottom, and made it three steps before a wave of weakness washed over him. His legs refused to support him, and everything was suddenly starry. Then there were no stars, only night.

Paris grabbed him before he plummeted to the bottom.

# # # #

Wind; warm and humid, cooling his sweaty face and beckoning him to consciousness. Gage slowly awoke to find himself laying on hard, textured metal. His mind supplied, like a waffle. He smiled. Where am I anyway? What happened? As his eyes adjusted, he remembered. After seconds in which years seemed to stoop between, Gage accumulated enough strength to open his eyes a slit. Though fuzzy, he recognized the panicked figure above him.

"Paris," he tried to say. But though his mind was in working order, his voice seemed to be a different story. The whisper that came out might as well have been in his mind. After a few moments of angry helplessness, Gage felt less like an entity and more like a human. "Paris. What happened?" He mumbled. She had been sitting to his left, leaning forward over him, her long legs stretched out in a position Gage found hard to believe could have been comfortable. Gage looked to her face and saw it twisted with fear she had never needed to learn to disguise. Gage had learned even when he was little to keep a straight face no matter what. Paris was looking away from him, but jerked his way when he spoke, her face flooding with relief at his soft voice.

"Gage, you're awake! I thought that..." Paris pulled her legs up beneath her, examining Gage. "What happened to you?"

He didn't know. It had just been like his mind had crashed on him. He shook his head, sitting upright experimentally, braced to fall. He felt kind of sick, and dizzy, but it faded. The worst of it was over; he was fine now. Whatever had happened before was gone. He concluded it was probably just the results of a concussion or something. Well, sitting was getting boring. Gage got to his feet.

Too quickly--he nearly fell against the railing. Daggers seemed to slice into his head, dismissing the pain in his ribs and legs as a mere ache. Silver fireworks exploded in the blackness of his closed eyes, threatening to take him again. His hands clenched around his head, willing the pain to stop. Paris' scared voice was a meaningless drone. Finally, the pain lessened. Gage stood upright, staring into Paris' wide emerald eyes. "I'm fine," he said.

She was silent. Looking down three floors to the bottom, she said solemnly, "You need to see a doctor."

"No, I don't." Gage leaned against the wall, not entirely sure of his legs. "Look, I'm really fine. This kind of thing isn't new."

Again, Paris gave him a hard examination. She seemed to take his word for it, because she finally nodded, leaning over the railing and breathing the wet air in deeply. Gage still hadn't gotten used to the humidity here, even after living more than half his life in this city. He was from Nevada originally, where the air was hot almost all of the time, and so dry it sucked the moisture out of a person's body.

He had loved it there, loved the red mountains and the blazing sunsets, fiery red and orange, sinking into a molten maroon as the sun went deeper and deeper down; but being only a teenager, he hadn't been able to do anything when his father apologetically announced that he had been laid off. Again. Gage had followed, just like always. He took a breath of the air with displeasure, feeling, like he often did, like he was breathing dirty water from a mop bucket. Upright, he leaned against the wall, watching Paris. So maybe he didn't completely disagree with Paris' suggestion. He hated being under someone's care. Always, he'd done things for himself, and being so vulnerable was becoming increasingly annoying. Maybe he should listen to her; listen to someone, for once.

And he'd been rude. Paris had seemed genuinely worried, and he'd dismissed her. Gage knew he should apologize. Of course, he wasn't too great at that, either. "Hey, Paris," he began.

She didn't reply. She was staring down at the parking lot, a perplexed look on her face. Her hands gripped the rusty bannister, the skin stretched tight over her knuckles.

Gage stepped forward, but saw nothing. A car had pulled in, a dirty blue station wagon that had probably seen better days a few decades ago, but there wasn't anything to alarm him. "What's wrong?"

"That's..." Paris looked closer, as if trying to confirm her suspicions. She nodded, and looked more confused. "That is my car."

"Oh, crap," Gage muttered. "We need to go." While Paris was looking at him questioningly, the door opened, and Gage saw a familiar form emerge. Though he couldn't see the face very well from the fourth floor, he recognized the confident stride. The man was dressed differently, and was walking stiffly, but Gage knew it was the man who had tried to kill him--would have killed him, if Paris hadn't helped.

"What if it's just someone returning it--?"

Despite her optimistic words, Paris followed when he started toward the staircase. She didn't see the man walking up to the apartment, and Gage was at least glad for that.

"Is there a fire escape here? Or a back way out?" he asked.

Paris looked surprised. "No one cares about safety codes here."

They would have to use the stairs. Yup. Gage thought wryly. Definitely screwed. Taking Paris' hand, he led her to the stairs. "Just follow me," he said.

She nodded wordlessly.

Okay, what now? Gage's mind scrolled desperately through every option he could think of. He heard echoing metal clangs from somewhere far away; footsteps. The assassin was coming up. "Come on."

Gage led her down the first staircase to the third floor, and then to the second, and when he heard no one, he contemplated going all the way to the ground floor. No. They'd gone too slow. They would have to wait. Gage pulled Paris into a dark corner, hoping the assassin would pass. If he did, they could go down while he went to Paris' apartment. Casual, jogging footsteps made it to the top of the stairs. The assassin stopped, looking around. At the apartment doors? How did he know where Gage was? In the dark nook, Gage felt an electric jolt of fear when cold, gray eyes seemed to meet with his own, and he shivered even though he knew he couldn't be seen.

The assassin walked to the base of the third floor staircase.

When he was gone, Paris started rambling. "He's dead. I killed him. I saw him fall...I thought I..." She looked to him. "Didn't I?"

"He doesn't die easy," Gage told her. "Come on. Maybe we can get to the bottom floor before he realizes we're not in your apartment."

Paris nodded.

"Okay then." Gage said. "Let's go. And be quiet."

Paris trailed behind him, cringing with each step she took, like the nearly inaudible clang her soft footsteps made on the staircase was too loud for her ears. Gage wanted to calm her; she was so worried. She wasn't fine, but scared to death, and he felt for her. "Shh," he whispered. "We'll be out of here soon."

Paris nodded, just slightly calmer, believing him. Gage wasn't sure if he believed himself. Upstairs, a voice said, "Miss Sullivan, open up. I need to talk to you about your cat." The voice sounded like a sullen neighbor's, like a person who was annoyed with having a rowdy feline next door. The voice was innocent, insistent. Paris shuddered hard. "I would have opened it," she said.

Who wouldn't have? Gage thought. Walking on, he noticed only a moment later that Paris wasn't moving. "Paris," he said. "You're fine now."

She still stood there.

"Come on!"

He hadn't meant to sound so harsh. The strain and the constant ache in his body was wearing away his patience. The words he spoke were an angry growl.

Paris lurched forward, tripping on a step. The sound the thin metal made reverberated, slicing the tense silence. She caught herself before she fell the three remaining steps, but she'd already done enough. There was a harsh exclamation upstairs, and they both heard rushed footsteps, heading back down. "I'm sorry!" Paris cried.

"Just run."

The steps got faster. Gage seized Paris' arm and ran with her. She almost tripped up once, taking Gage with her. Only two seconds were lost, but it was too long; their pursuer appeared on the staircase behind them. Paris screamed. Sunlight burst on them as they landed on flat ground and ran to the stolen car. Paris' bad habit of leaving the keys in her car was what saved them. Gage swung into the driver's seat, twisting the key, and Paris reeled into the car only a second later.

Leaving a cloud of dust behind him in the crumbling lot that looked like mudcracked desert ground, he streaked out before Paris even closed her door.

# # # #

Liam swore as he inserted the key into the ignition. The car gave a cough like a terminal patient and died. He twisted the key again, this time with no response at all. A third try did not yield even a hiccup. Liam tore the key out and threw it into the passenger seat beside him. He looked at his cell phone, sitting where he'd laid it, on the dash. He knew he should call his employer and confess his failure, but he didn't. The next call he made to the man would be to announce his victory.

He picked up the phone for a different reason, dialing the police.

After he hung up, every police radio in the city crackled, telling the highway patrol to look out for the pine green sedan.

Liam smiled. There were a few good things after all about having a high profile employer. He leaned back in the seat of the dead car, smiling.



Read the conclusion!
"Fragile: Part 2"  13+: The conclusion. Gage must make a decision: Paris' life or his own.