Oh... fucking hell already . .

. . Ancillary.

It's 6 o'clock. I don't care. I'm going anyway.

Up the flights of simple, derelict thoughts and into the sizable, though not too, chamber where the hostages are kept. For future need, of course. It's often not even the point whether or not I get it. It's just that I have to go, and going means not worrying 'bout whether or not.

Just go.

This time the only difference is that I seem to have got the hang of leaving these particular things up in the air for no one to find. It's like the time when she said no, but I wasn't the one doing it. I didn't have to stop, but of course I did.

Of course it didn't help.

And now it's not so bad that I forget her name.

Ok now, don't even look around. Just grab what's needed for later and slide down the modified pole in the floor. With a slight twist, just... there. I swing around the other things, that stuff I wouldn't even have left there (mostly cuz I wouldn't have bothered with 'em in the first place) and under the shard that always never falls. Around the dumpster and into the front seat where the night has the engine already warm and ready for cold gas to burn hot, leaving tire, smoke, all that isn't behind.

It's time.

It's almost over.

Then.. well, then, of course, perhaps I'll be finally able to get started.

Or not . .