The High Window.

[Ciel]

There was a ocean wind blowing that morning. It was one of those wet bay-era breeze that comes in from the sea and curls your hair and makes your fingers cold.  On days like this, you're bound to get a bad horoscope. Scout did not believe in that kind of nonsense, but it was the only way she could describe this feeling. A day of dozen-car pileups and closed-casket funerals. Meek little wives feel the edge of the carving knife and study their husbands's necks.

Bad things happen on days like this. You could even wake up with a collar around your neck.

Scout Pfeiffer (Girl 060) stared out at the distance. The storehouse was not the highest point on the island, but it was enough for her to get her bearings. The gray sky made it impossible for her to gauge what time it was. Had to be early morning. She could see movement in the far distance. There were others on the island, she knew that much, but her position made it impossible for her to tell whether anyone was coming her way.

They dropped her at the tail end of the wishbone-shaped island. The island was shaped in a strange shape, like two bridges connecting three separate islands. Scout scoffed. She had no idea where she was, but if the map was any indication, there was plenty of places to hide.

Scout had no intention of hiding.

The hood of her flannel jacket was pulled over her head. Her assigned dufflebag was thrown over her shoulder. In one hand, Scout held the compass and her folded up map. In the other, a bonesaw. It was sharp. Damn near pricked her finger on it.  It was a good start, but she needed a gun. Scout did not watch a minute of this show, Survival of the Fittest, and she knew she needed a gun.

After that? No clue. Scout hated ambiguity, but she'd have to suck it up and deal.  A small part of her wanted to say something else, maybe a message to her family back in Brooklyn, to her mother, maybe even Gary. Of all the times to be a big baby, now was not the time.

Scout breathed in deeply. She let it all out. Then she turned, walking away from the edge and past the teetering helicopter. She opened the door to the stairway. The creak of old, rusted age made Scout's teeth grit.  She didn't bother closing the door behind her, too much noise. Each footstep carried an echo, though.  Scout would have to keep that in mind.

She was calm. She was collected. She had a plan.

(Scout Pfeiffer continued in They say the hangover after you get drugged and kidnapped by terrorists is the worst.)