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Run Thief Run

SK Wynter

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[i]She was running
She was gunning
She had been dancing
She had been prancing[/i]

The Marrakesh club and all its illicit beauty was somewhere far behind her. Old Grandfather was drunk, high, with women, she didn't know ▬ one of those God-forsaken states he was in. He was a hedonist, after all.

[i]Cheap thrills
Popping pills
No such glory
In indecent ills[/i]

She should have never asked that woman about that passport. Annan's head felt swollen and she felt like she was flying; she had to be high from the smoke caused by burning substances. Why else would she stretch her arms like wings, and run for the nearby desert?

[i]Sick puppy
Cheap guppies
Run away from
All that madness that is done[/i]

Was that foul man still behind her? Would she again risk being turned into a victim, something found in a back alley and turned into a police report? Never. That was not the way; Annan was above the disgusting habits of the club-goers and Old Grandfather. She'd even forgot Khris.

[i]Run thief run
Run like the wind
Run thief run
All the madness is done[/i]

The night was bitterly cold, as it was always in the desert. By morning, she'd be a pale, burnt, baked potato in the desert. She hadn't even written up that "Big Book of Tech" she was supposed to for Procinctia; why now, of all places, had she just remembered that?

[i]Spew and spite
Like a snake's bite
Full of fright
Run thief run[/i]

She was done. She'd find her own place, Pict or no Pict, Khris or no Khris. All she knew that, while she was intoxicated, she would be nowhere that people were at. She was running, unwanting of the cheap thrills; she wasn't going to end up like some sick puppy. [i]Run, thief, run![/i] her instincts and mind screamed, and she felt like she'd spew, and she was full of spite.

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[i]Her head was pounding
Nerves were sounding[/i]

Oh, her [i]head[/i]. Her freaking, aching head. Bloodshot eyes slowly opened, full of grit and natural crust. Her arms and legs were sore from running for hours, and her mouth was as dry as a bone in an oven. The late morning sun beat down in its ultraviolet rhythm, and her delicate skin had already burned. Slowly, she stood up, having faceplanted into the sand some time before. Had she been there all night? Annan couldn't remember anything.

[i]The vultures count the bodies
Count the bodies
(Count the bodies)[/i]

She looked around, nothing in sight but sand. She looked upwards, where there was only sky and sun. She turned around, and lo and behold, there was a grainy road snaking through the sands. What a sight for sore eyes! (Justifiably so, from all the smoke that was in that damned club.) Seeing no other ultimatum but to wither away and die of dehydration, she walked towards it, and continued to walk along it.

[i]And here begins another long and winding road.[/i]


Well, she ended up walking for four hours, and by the time she reached a tiny rest stop, she was as red as a cherry. It was all she could do to stand up, get to the petite gas station, and croak for water. Then the world blurred and she rushed backwards, her eyes rolling up into the back of her head. Heat stroke, dehydration and no breakfast ▬ smashing. Like how she smashed the back of her head against the concrete step in front of the station!

The next time she had woke up, she was in a hospital, diagnosed with severe sunburn and dehydration. She told the doctors she was poor and homeless, seeing no reason to lie, and that she had got lost from her refugee boat. They were a bit incredulous, asking how she could have come from the coast to somewhere hours from Marrakesh. Her answer? "I walked until I couldn't anymore." It was good enough for her, and good enough that the hospital had called the authorities to ship her out. In the meantime, she was left to read some old magazines, with someone in the bed across the room. She didn't know who, though, only that the curtain surrounded that person, and that said person was awfully quiet.

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Lying in hospital bed with a vintage BAR rifle at his feet sat a bearded man, wearing a distinctive yet generic paramilitary uniform of indeterminate rank, keeping to himself and quietly reading [i]Statesman Awesome Action Squad: Hammer of Damocles[/i].

Generalissimo was lying low and plotting his comeback following his anticlimactic non-showdown with Kaiser Martens. Having access to all the files and funds of the organization it was easy for Generalissimo to infiltrate Procinctia’s White Cross; pulling a few strings [i]'Alissimo Gen'[/i], Generalissimo’s blatantly obvious pseudonym, became administrator of a Procinctian White Cross Hospital that specialized in caring for refugees. [i]‘Alissimo Gen’[/i] wasn’t exactly keeping his head down and someone would likely notice eventually. . . but today might not be that day.

While the room looked like any other room in the hospital it was Generalissimo’s secret headquarters where behind the veil a curtain he didn’t bother hiding his identity.
In retrospect a flimsy privacy curtain wasn’t particularly good security. . .

Edited by Generalissimo
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