Finished writing January 2016.
Breakfast
Quincy’s ears aren’t nearly awake enough to enjoy this as much as Tessa’s enjoying it, but nevertheless they’re being filled with soft, sweet tones from the blown-out speakers across the kitchen he’s just shambled into. The music isn’t very loud, and those damn speakers sound more and more awful every day, but Pink Floyd is Pink Floyd, and the million bright ambassadors of morning that Gilmour is singing about are really appropriate for the cold winter sun streaming through the window in beams. Tessa’s exposed hip tattoo, her unoccupied hand caressing the symbol of her ancestry, shines in the bright morning light- fitting, that the Hebrew characters for moon reflect the light of the young sun.
He joins her at the kitchen table (which, in all honesty, is more of a haphazardly thrown together combination of plywood and two-by-fours than an actual table) with his own bowl of cereal and together they chew in silence.
It’s not an awkward silence. It’s comfortable, familiar. It’s the kind of silence that exists between two best friends who are sprawled out on the dirt and staring at the starry sky of a rural night, the only obstruction of their view being a tent far off in their peripheral vision. It’s the kind of silence that exists between two sisters who are both sat by the fire, reading their own books and petting the cat that’s nestled between them.
This is what they do every morning. This is going to be a normal day. It’s always a normal day- Tessa pouring her cereal wakes Quincy up, he joins her in the kitchen. He takes longer to eat. Tessa showers first. They both work at the waterfront Ivar’s- sometimes their shifts overlap. Sometimes they don’t. Quincy goes home first; Tessa likes to take walks before she settles into the gentle comfort of evening. At least that’s what she tells Quincy- she’s walking. It’s not too far from a half-truth. There is walking involved in what she spends her evenings doing.
“So my shift today is eight to four. I’ll probably be home by… ten or so. Sound good?” Tessa doesn’t need to add the question at the end- it always sounds good, and there isn’t anything that either of them can do to change it if it doesn’t. She adds it out of habit.
“Yeah,” Quincy replies. He doesn’t need to say this, but he does. “I’m working three to eight. Short shift today. I’ll be home before you.”
“As usual,” Tessa chuckles genuinely. “Save me some dinner, would you? I’ll be hungry when I get home.”
“Dude, you’re gonna be out. The least you could do is pick us up a pizza or something.”
“But why do that when your penne alfredo is to die for?”
“It literally comes out of a box. The pasta comes out of a box. You boil it for ten minutes and then you pour some alfredo in there. There’s really nothing special about it, Tess. Even the sauce is pre-made!”
“Psh. That doesn’t mean it’s not good. You gotta have a secret ingredient in there or something… what is it? Love?”
“Yup,” Quincy jokes. “The secret ingredient is love. A special love-ly alfredo sauce. A by-product of love, let’s say. The harvesting process is very difficult; first, you have to collect just the right sock from my sock drawer. Then you have to journey deep into the cavern under my mattress-”
“Oh god, okay, you don’t have to ruin it for me. Fine, I’ll get us a pizza. But I can’t guarantee I won’t add a secret ingredient of my own, you disgusting human bean.” They’re both on the verge of bursting with laughter.
“I try.”
Suiting Up
Tessa gets off at four. By four fifteen she’s back in her apartment and halfway through changing out of her work clothes- her uniform shirt is already buttoned down so far that it doesn’t take too long. She’s surprised her boss lets her wear the polo so unprofessionally.
Some parts of her outfit are practical for what she does. Some aren’t. Stretchy leggings matched with non-rigid boots are a good choice. So are the hood, and the mask. So is the most supportive sports bra Tessa could find. The hiked up red skirt? That is for aesthetic and very little else.
The arrow-filled quiver and bow stashed in her closet are not for aesthetic.
Tessa’s poised at her window, leaning on the sill, phone in hand. It’s been a year since she first met Sophia Denny, whom she’s since learned is the literal, embodied soul of the city of Seattle itself. She’s made quite a place for herself in Tessa’s life, and having done so has earned her a place on Tessa’s speed-dial.
It only rings twice before Seattle picks up.
“Fifth and Madison, armed robbery. No one’s called the cops yet. No firearms, just a machete. Nothing too bad. Have fun and be safe, Tess.”
Seattle always knows exactly what Tessa’s calling for at this time of day. Knowledge of every current crime in the city is a useful ability for a city spirit, Tessa imagines. “Thanks babe,” she says jokingly. She’s serious about the first part. The pet name is only a half-joke, but Tessa wishes it wasn’t. She wishes Seattle was saying her name in a much different context. “We’re still on for our Jessica Jones marathon on Saturday?”
“Hell yeah, Ash.” Tessa only chuckles at the nickname. She should never have told Seattle her middle name.
“Alright. Time to go save the world.”
She stuffs her phone into her bra before jumping right out onto the fire escape and speeding off. She really should get something with pockets one of these days.
Walking Home
“Alley off of Spring Street, between Western and First Avenue. Mugging. Girl’s got a gun, but it’s low caliber. Be careful anyway.”
It’s about eight now, maybe a few minutes after. Tessa’s only a few blocks away.
Quincy is just on his way home. His shift has just ended and he’s walking Northeast on Spring Street- only about a block and a half down now, but he hears a cry of pain from a nearby alleyway. The way he sees it, he has two options: speed walk past, ignoring a possible crime in progress, or investigate and possibly see Artemis for himself.
The past year has seen Artemis become somewhat of a celebrity in the city and the surrounding suburbs. The Vigilante in Red, The Archer in the Mask, the headlines called her. She never kills anyone- Quincy admires her for that. He just wants to know who she really is, or at least get to meet her.
He’s made his decision. He turns into the alley and crouches behind a dumpster. Peeking around, he can get a better view of the scene; there’s a woman clutching her bleeding knee and trying to pull the red-fletched arrow out of it. In front of her, frozen in fear and confusion, a man, halfway through retrieving several bills from his own wallet, about to hand them over to the now-bleeding woman. Perched on a rooftop above and beginning to climb down is Artemis herself.
Her seemingly sudden appearance brings the man out of his trance. When she speaks, her voice is clearly passing through some sort of modifier. It sounds like 3 deep, ringing voices speaking in unison, somewhat muffled by the cloth mask covering her nose and mouth.
“Are you okay? Did she hurt you?”
The man is in awe. “I’m fine… thank you.”
She urges him to get home and get some rest, but Quincy notices something on her hip, just visible through the black lace of her shirt. It looks like a tattoo. He manages to pull out his phone without being heard, making sure it’s on silent and hoping the streetlamps provide enough illumination before sneaking it around the corner of the dumpster and snapping a zoomed-in picture of what looks like words on her hip. As soon as she’s climbed back up to the rooftops and left, Quincy rushes the rest of the way home.
Discovery
Zooming in on a cell phone picture rarely proves to be particularly effective. Quality decreases almost exponentially the more you zoom in, but every once in a while you’ll get a picture where you can actually tell what the picture is of.
Quincy sits on his bed now, zoomed in on the already-zoomed in picture he took on his phone, studying the markings on Artemis’ hip. The lace shirt complicates the process of puzzling out what the tattoo is, but it’s still possible. He’s been staring at the photo for at least ten minutes now, and finally, everything clicks into place. It’s a word- a Hebrew word. Quincy doesn’t speak Hebrew, but having a Jewish roommate means you learn at least a little bit. Enough to know that חַרֵיָ , yerah, means ‘moon,’ and it’s the same tattoo that Tessa has. In the same place. Quincy is trying to convince himself it’s a coincidence.
It’s not. And he’s failing to convince himself. She would tell him, though, right? If she was secretly a vigilante? If she was risking her life every night to bring down petty criminals?
Apparently not, though.
“Well… shit.”
Confrontation
Tessa walks through the door at around ten that night and is immediately greeted with Quincy’s fist in her face. It hurts his hand more than he expects it too as he turns around and cradles his fist close to his chest. That was not a very good punch, even he can tell that. Tessa groans and keels over, hands on her nose and head hanging loosely. She’s never had a particularly high pain tolerance, nor has she ever been particularly good at self-defense. Number one reason she prefers a long-range weapon.
“Okay, Quincy, what the fuck was that for?” She stands back up straight, one hand on her nose, holding the other one up, palm facing Quincy in a gesture of surrender. He turns back to face her.
“Why didn’t you tell me you’re Artemis? You risk your life every night, you’re technically breaking the law. You have this whole alter-ego and I feel like I don’t know who you really are!”
“Oh shit… ohhhhh shit. Fuck. Alright, how did you find out?” She’s standing up straight now, but she still has a hand on her face, massaging the bridge of her nose. Her other arm is across her chest, clutching her side for security more than anything.
“I was on my way home tonight, a couple hours ago. I heard a shout, so I checked it out-”
“Rhyme…” she only says this under her breath and out of habit.
“I hid behind a dumpster and lo and behold, there was Artemis herself! I was in awe, but I noticed she had a tattoo on her hip. Something subtle, but noticeable if you’re used to seeing it there. I took this.” Quincy holds his phone up so Tessa can see the close-up of her tattoo, poorly hidden below her lace.
She stands there with an apologetic face, staring at the picture. After a minute she looks back up at Quincy. “I don’t know what to say. ‘Sorry’ isn’t really enough. I should’ve told you. I was planning to. I wanted to. It just never seemed like the right time.”
“Whatever. Okay. I’m going to bed. But this isn’t over. I hope you realize I’m going to be salty about this for like… a long time. I just don’t want you doing this to yourself. Goodnight.”
“Goodnight…”
Breakfast the next morning is the kind of encounter that you’d only choose over being burned alive. Or something equally as painful. This is not a normal day.
Tessa has another secret she needs Quincy to know. She’s not sure if it’s the right time.
Then again, it wasn’t ever the right time for that other secret, and where did that get her?
She speaks after a long silence. “Hey.”
Quincy still sounds cold and angry when he responds, “What?”
“Look at this.” She holds up her hand, palm up, and there burns a small flame. She plays with it a little, twisting it around her fingers and pouring it to her other hand before smothering it and putting her hands in her pockets.
“Wow. Alright, alright. How powerful are you?”
“Not very. I can light candles and arrowheads. That’s about it.”
Quincy raises his eyebrows and sighs. She says it as though the ability to manipulate fire, however small, is not a big thing, like it’s not impressive. “I’m not hungry anymore and I have to go to work anyway.” He gets up, pours the rest of his cereal down the drain, quickly finishes getting ready and sees himself out the door without another word.
Montage
Weeks pass. Quincy hardly speaks to Tessa at all, and when he does it’s clipped and unfriendly. He can’t forgive her. But she needs him to. Quincy’s brutality means that Tessa can’t even forgive herself. She doesn’t stop going out, though. She needs justice like she needs food.
She can’t stop. Quincy doesn’t try to stop her.
Redemption
Quincy’s walking home beneath the dim streetlamps and amid mostly deserted streets. It’s later than he usually gets off. A strong hand pulls him aside, into an alley, and pushes him into the brick wall of the nearest stout building. His back hits it pretty hard. When he looks up, he’s greeted with a knife in his face and a woman in a hoodie demanding any cash that he has.
“Sorry, I don’t really have any cash! Please just let me go and I won’t call the police!”
“Except you can’t call the police unless I let you go. Understand?”
Quincy sighs, frustration clear in his voice. “Okay. Except I don’t have cash. I can hardly afford my rent! Do you really think I’d have any cash on me?” He’s stalling. Stalling and praying that Tessa is still risking her life, still tracking down petty criminals.
He doesn’t believe in any god- Buddha doesn’t count as a god in his book, rather a philosopher- but if he did, he would have believed his prayers had been answered. As his mugger is swinging the knife toward his face, she suddenly finds herself with a red-fletched arrow sticking right out of her knife hand. Quincy lets out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding as the knife clatters to the ground at his feet. His mugger is clutching her hand and shrieking.
“You shot me! You shot me in the hand!”
Tessa makes it to ground level in only a few drops- fire escape, dumpster, damp concrete. She doesn’t need to keep her mask up. She does anyway. Quincy is thinking about forgiving her- how can one not forgive someone who just saved their life? He realizes he’s staring at her, then decides to speak over the mugger’s sounds of agony. “I’m sorry. It wasn’t fair of me to be mad at you. I’ll forgive you, but can you promise not to go out again?”
“Is this really the best time for this, Quincy?” Tessa’s approaching the mugger, who tries throwing a punch at her. Were she not incapacitated by the arrow in her hand, she probably wouldn’t have missed so spectacularly. Tessa uses her bow to knock her out, then calls the police and has a brief conversation informing them of the criminal’s location.
When she hangs up Tessa sighs and thinks about Quincy’s proposal for a minute- forgiveness if she can give up her night job. She’s staring into nothing. Is she willing to give up her best friend and roommate for the sake of justice? Or can she give up the pursuit of justice to keep her best friend? Is the exhilaration of taking down criminals on her own more important to her than what she feels for the man by her side?
“Alright.”
“What? Seriously?” Quincy is in disbelief.
“Yeah. I’d rather keep my best friend. Now let me get changed and we can go get apology drinks or something.”
“Uh…. Alright. But you know neither of us are old enough to drink.”
“Coffee, then. Do you think some place is open this late?”
“That place by our place?”
“Yeah, sure. I think they have karaoke tonight.”
Coffee Karaoke
There’s an indie coffee shop across the street from the Starbucks nearest their apartment building. It doesn’t close until midnight and it’s the only coffee shop they know that hosts karaoke nights. They both figure Coffee Karaoke is something that belongs in Portland more than Seattle, but are grateful for it anyway.
With the amount of caffeine they’ve ingested, there’s no way either of them will be sleeping tonight. They’ve already been asked to keep it down by four fellow patrons but they’re having a hard time. They stay until the shop closes, both of them subjecting the poor patrons to their horrific singing. They don’t need to be drunk to be bad singers.
They finally make it home and Quincy crashes by about one in the morning, somehow making it to his own bed before passing out cold.
Lies
Tessa doesn’t like lying to her friends. She doesn’t like betraying them, and she doesn’t like breaking promises. But she can’t let this go. She can’t live a normal life.
She creeps open the door to Quincy’s room to make sure he’s sound asleep. Her mask is already up, decision already made. Part of her wishes she could change her own mind if she reminds herself who she made her promise to, but she already knows that she can’t. He’s fast asleep, snoring peacefully, when she tucks her bow over her shoulder and climbs out the window and into the dark night.
Quincy’s ears aren’t nearly awake enough to enjoy this as much as Tessa’s enjoying it, but nevertheless they’re being filled with soft, sweet tones from the blown-out speakers across the kitchen he’s just shambled into. The music isn’t very loud, and those damn speakers sound more and more awful every day, but Pink Floyd is Pink Floyd, and the million bright ambassadors of morning that Gilmour is singing about are really appropriate for the cold winter sun streaming through the window in beams. Tessa’s exposed hip tattoo, her unoccupied hand caressing the symbol of her ancestry, shines in the bright morning light- fitting, that the Hebrew characters for moon reflect the light of the young sun.
He joins her at the kitchen table (which, in all honesty, is more of a haphazardly thrown together combination of plywood and two-by-fours than an actual table) with his own bowl of cereal and together they chew in silence.
It’s not an awkward silence. It’s comfortable, familiar. It’s the kind of silence that exists between two best friends who are sprawled out on the dirt and staring at the starry sky of a rural night, the only obstruction of their view being a tent far off in their peripheral vision. It’s the kind of silence that exists between two sisters who are both sat by the fire, reading their own books and petting the cat that’s nestled between them.
This is what they do every morning. This is going to be a normal day. It’s always a normal day- Tessa pouring her cereal wakes Quincy up, he joins her in the kitchen. He takes longer to eat. Tessa showers first. They both work at the waterfront Ivar’s- sometimes their shifts overlap. Sometimes they don’t. Quincy goes home first; Tessa likes to take walks before she settles into the gentle comfort of evening. At least that’s what she tells Quincy- she’s walking. It’s not too far from a half-truth. There is walking involved in what she spends her evenings doing.
“So my shift today is eight to four. I’ll probably be home by… ten or so. Sound good?” Tessa doesn’t need to add the question at the end- it always sounds good, and there isn’t anything that either of them can do to change it if it doesn’t. She adds it out of habit.
“Yeah,” Quincy replies. He doesn’t need to say this, but he does. “I’m working three to eight. Short shift today. I’ll be home before you.”
“As usual,” Tessa chuckles genuinely. “Save me some dinner, would you? I’ll be hungry when I get home.”
“Dude, you’re gonna be out. The least you could do is pick us up a pizza or something.”
“But why do that when your penne alfredo is to die for?”
“It literally comes out of a box. The pasta comes out of a box. You boil it for ten minutes and then you pour some alfredo in there. There’s really nothing special about it, Tess. Even the sauce is pre-made!”
“Psh. That doesn’t mean it’s not good. You gotta have a secret ingredient in there or something… what is it? Love?”
“Yup,” Quincy jokes. “The secret ingredient is love. A special love-ly alfredo sauce. A by-product of love, let’s say. The harvesting process is very difficult; first, you have to collect just the right sock from my sock drawer. Then you have to journey deep into the cavern under my mattress-”
“Oh god, okay, you don’t have to ruin it for me. Fine, I’ll get us a pizza. But I can’t guarantee I won’t add a secret ingredient of my own, you disgusting human bean.” They’re both on the verge of bursting with laughter.
“I try.”
Suiting Up
Tessa gets off at four. By four fifteen she’s back in her apartment and halfway through changing out of her work clothes- her uniform shirt is already buttoned down so far that it doesn’t take too long. She’s surprised her boss lets her wear the polo so unprofessionally.
Some parts of her outfit are practical for what she does. Some aren’t. Stretchy leggings matched with non-rigid boots are a good choice. So are the hood, and the mask. So is the most supportive sports bra Tessa could find. The hiked up red skirt? That is for aesthetic and very little else.
The arrow-filled quiver and bow stashed in her closet are not for aesthetic.
Tessa’s poised at her window, leaning on the sill, phone in hand. It’s been a year since she first met Sophia Denny, whom she’s since learned is the literal, embodied soul of the city of Seattle itself. She’s made quite a place for herself in Tessa’s life, and having done so has earned her a place on Tessa’s speed-dial.
It only rings twice before Seattle picks up.
“Fifth and Madison, armed robbery. No one’s called the cops yet. No firearms, just a machete. Nothing too bad. Have fun and be safe, Tess.”
Seattle always knows exactly what Tessa’s calling for at this time of day. Knowledge of every current crime in the city is a useful ability for a city spirit, Tessa imagines. “Thanks babe,” she says jokingly. She’s serious about the first part. The pet name is only a half-joke, but Tessa wishes it wasn’t. She wishes Seattle was saying her name in a much different context. “We’re still on for our Jessica Jones marathon on Saturday?”
“Hell yeah, Ash.” Tessa only chuckles at the nickname. She should never have told Seattle her middle name.
“Alright. Time to go save the world.”
She stuffs her phone into her bra before jumping right out onto the fire escape and speeding off. She really should get something with pockets one of these days.
Walking Home
“Alley off of Spring Street, between Western and First Avenue. Mugging. Girl’s got a gun, but it’s low caliber. Be careful anyway.”
It’s about eight now, maybe a few minutes after. Tessa’s only a few blocks away.
Quincy is just on his way home. His shift has just ended and he’s walking Northeast on Spring Street- only about a block and a half down now, but he hears a cry of pain from a nearby alleyway. The way he sees it, he has two options: speed walk past, ignoring a possible crime in progress, or investigate and possibly see Artemis for himself.
The past year has seen Artemis become somewhat of a celebrity in the city and the surrounding suburbs. The Vigilante in Red, The Archer in the Mask, the headlines called her. She never kills anyone- Quincy admires her for that. He just wants to know who she really is, or at least get to meet her.
He’s made his decision. He turns into the alley and crouches behind a dumpster. Peeking around, he can get a better view of the scene; there’s a woman clutching her bleeding knee and trying to pull the red-fletched arrow out of it. In front of her, frozen in fear and confusion, a man, halfway through retrieving several bills from his own wallet, about to hand them over to the now-bleeding woman. Perched on a rooftop above and beginning to climb down is Artemis herself.
Her seemingly sudden appearance brings the man out of his trance. When she speaks, her voice is clearly passing through some sort of modifier. It sounds like 3 deep, ringing voices speaking in unison, somewhat muffled by the cloth mask covering her nose and mouth.
“Are you okay? Did she hurt you?”
The man is in awe. “I’m fine… thank you.”
She urges him to get home and get some rest, but Quincy notices something on her hip, just visible through the black lace of her shirt. It looks like a tattoo. He manages to pull out his phone without being heard, making sure it’s on silent and hoping the streetlamps provide enough illumination before sneaking it around the corner of the dumpster and snapping a zoomed-in picture of what looks like words on her hip. As soon as she’s climbed back up to the rooftops and left, Quincy rushes the rest of the way home.
Discovery
Zooming in on a cell phone picture rarely proves to be particularly effective. Quality decreases almost exponentially the more you zoom in, but every once in a while you’ll get a picture where you can actually tell what the picture is of.
Quincy sits on his bed now, zoomed in on the already-zoomed in picture he took on his phone, studying the markings on Artemis’ hip. The lace shirt complicates the process of puzzling out what the tattoo is, but it’s still possible. He’s been staring at the photo for at least ten minutes now, and finally, everything clicks into place. It’s a word- a Hebrew word. Quincy doesn’t speak Hebrew, but having a Jewish roommate means you learn at least a little bit. Enough to know that חַרֵיָ , yerah, means ‘moon,’ and it’s the same tattoo that Tessa has. In the same place. Quincy is trying to convince himself it’s a coincidence.
It’s not. And he’s failing to convince himself. She would tell him, though, right? If she was secretly a vigilante? If she was risking her life every night to bring down petty criminals?
Apparently not, though.
“Well… shit.”
Confrontation
Tessa walks through the door at around ten that night and is immediately greeted with Quincy’s fist in her face. It hurts his hand more than he expects it too as he turns around and cradles his fist close to his chest. That was not a very good punch, even he can tell that. Tessa groans and keels over, hands on her nose and head hanging loosely. She’s never had a particularly high pain tolerance, nor has she ever been particularly good at self-defense. Number one reason she prefers a long-range weapon.
“Okay, Quincy, what the fuck was that for?” She stands back up straight, one hand on her nose, holding the other one up, palm facing Quincy in a gesture of surrender. He turns back to face her.
“Why didn’t you tell me you’re Artemis? You risk your life every night, you’re technically breaking the law. You have this whole alter-ego and I feel like I don’t know who you really are!”
“Oh shit… ohhhhh shit. Fuck. Alright, how did you find out?” She’s standing up straight now, but she still has a hand on her face, massaging the bridge of her nose. Her other arm is across her chest, clutching her side for security more than anything.
“I was on my way home tonight, a couple hours ago. I heard a shout, so I checked it out-”
“Rhyme…” she only says this under her breath and out of habit.
“I hid behind a dumpster and lo and behold, there was Artemis herself! I was in awe, but I noticed she had a tattoo on her hip. Something subtle, but noticeable if you’re used to seeing it there. I took this.” Quincy holds his phone up so Tessa can see the close-up of her tattoo, poorly hidden below her lace.
She stands there with an apologetic face, staring at the picture. After a minute she looks back up at Quincy. “I don’t know what to say. ‘Sorry’ isn’t really enough. I should’ve told you. I was planning to. I wanted to. It just never seemed like the right time.”
“Whatever. Okay. I’m going to bed. But this isn’t over. I hope you realize I’m going to be salty about this for like… a long time. I just don’t want you doing this to yourself. Goodnight.”
“Goodnight…”
Breakfast the next morning is the kind of encounter that you’d only choose over being burned alive. Or something equally as painful. This is not a normal day.
Tessa has another secret she needs Quincy to know. She’s not sure if it’s the right time.
Then again, it wasn’t ever the right time for that other secret, and where did that get her?
She speaks after a long silence. “Hey.”
Quincy still sounds cold and angry when he responds, “What?”
“Look at this.” She holds up her hand, palm up, and there burns a small flame. She plays with it a little, twisting it around her fingers and pouring it to her other hand before smothering it and putting her hands in her pockets.
“Wow. Alright, alright. How powerful are you?”
“Not very. I can light candles and arrowheads. That’s about it.”
Quincy raises his eyebrows and sighs. She says it as though the ability to manipulate fire, however small, is not a big thing, like it’s not impressive. “I’m not hungry anymore and I have to go to work anyway.” He gets up, pours the rest of his cereal down the drain, quickly finishes getting ready and sees himself out the door without another word.
Montage
Weeks pass. Quincy hardly speaks to Tessa at all, and when he does it’s clipped and unfriendly. He can’t forgive her. But she needs him to. Quincy’s brutality means that Tessa can’t even forgive herself. She doesn’t stop going out, though. She needs justice like she needs food.
She can’t stop. Quincy doesn’t try to stop her.
Redemption
Quincy’s walking home beneath the dim streetlamps and amid mostly deserted streets. It’s later than he usually gets off. A strong hand pulls him aside, into an alley, and pushes him into the brick wall of the nearest stout building. His back hits it pretty hard. When he looks up, he’s greeted with a knife in his face and a woman in a hoodie demanding any cash that he has.
“Sorry, I don’t really have any cash! Please just let me go and I won’t call the police!”
“Except you can’t call the police unless I let you go. Understand?”
Quincy sighs, frustration clear in his voice. “Okay. Except I don’t have cash. I can hardly afford my rent! Do you really think I’d have any cash on me?” He’s stalling. Stalling and praying that Tessa is still risking her life, still tracking down petty criminals.
He doesn’t believe in any god- Buddha doesn’t count as a god in his book, rather a philosopher- but if he did, he would have believed his prayers had been answered. As his mugger is swinging the knife toward his face, she suddenly finds herself with a red-fletched arrow sticking right out of her knife hand. Quincy lets out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding as the knife clatters to the ground at his feet. His mugger is clutching her hand and shrieking.
“You shot me! You shot me in the hand!”
Tessa makes it to ground level in only a few drops- fire escape, dumpster, damp concrete. She doesn’t need to keep her mask up. She does anyway. Quincy is thinking about forgiving her- how can one not forgive someone who just saved their life? He realizes he’s staring at her, then decides to speak over the mugger’s sounds of agony. “I’m sorry. It wasn’t fair of me to be mad at you. I’ll forgive you, but can you promise not to go out again?”
“Is this really the best time for this, Quincy?” Tessa’s approaching the mugger, who tries throwing a punch at her. Were she not incapacitated by the arrow in her hand, she probably wouldn’t have missed so spectacularly. Tessa uses her bow to knock her out, then calls the police and has a brief conversation informing them of the criminal’s location.
When she hangs up Tessa sighs and thinks about Quincy’s proposal for a minute- forgiveness if she can give up her night job. She’s staring into nothing. Is she willing to give up her best friend and roommate for the sake of justice? Or can she give up the pursuit of justice to keep her best friend? Is the exhilaration of taking down criminals on her own more important to her than what she feels for the man by her side?
“Alright.”
“What? Seriously?” Quincy is in disbelief.
“Yeah. I’d rather keep my best friend. Now let me get changed and we can go get apology drinks or something.”
“Uh…. Alright. But you know neither of us are old enough to drink.”
“Coffee, then. Do you think some place is open this late?”
“That place by our place?”
“Yeah, sure. I think they have karaoke tonight.”
Coffee Karaoke
There’s an indie coffee shop across the street from the Starbucks nearest their apartment building. It doesn’t close until midnight and it’s the only coffee shop they know that hosts karaoke nights. They both figure Coffee Karaoke is something that belongs in Portland more than Seattle, but are grateful for it anyway.
With the amount of caffeine they’ve ingested, there’s no way either of them will be sleeping tonight. They’ve already been asked to keep it down by four fellow patrons but they’re having a hard time. They stay until the shop closes, both of them subjecting the poor patrons to their horrific singing. They don’t need to be drunk to be bad singers.
They finally make it home and Quincy crashes by about one in the morning, somehow making it to his own bed before passing out cold.
Lies
Tessa doesn’t like lying to her friends. She doesn’t like betraying them, and she doesn’t like breaking promises. But she can’t let this go. She can’t live a normal life.
She creeps open the door to Quincy’s room to make sure he’s sound asleep. Her mask is already up, decision already made. Part of her wishes she could change her own mind if she reminds herself who she made her promise to, but she already knows that she can’t. He’s fast asleep, snoring peacefully, when she tucks her bow over her shoulder and climbs out the window and into the dark night.