She sat on the metal bench across the wall of the back of the van, looking down. A CD player sat on her left thigh, trapping the black fabric of the skirt she would only be wearing for a couple more hours underneath it, headphones nestled around her neck, playing “Nymphetamine” loud, annoying the others in the vehicle, but she didn’t seem to care. Her hand was closed around a half-empty McDonald’s cup, almost forgotten. A bag, containing her change of clothes and some other necessities, rested on the bench next to her. By her foot, propped up against her bare ankle, was the handgun that had served her so well for so long. Her dark hair, black with reddish highlights, was pulled back into a ponytail, whisper of a scar on her temple from old abuses. She crossed her arms loosely over her chest, looking up finally, eyes the color of faded paper flowers, light lavender, finding the one she followed and questioning him silently. A nod from him confirmed her suspicions.

The man she had looked to sat on the bench opposite her, long legs pulled up onto the thin steel beam, violet eyes several shades darker than hers staring out the window, directing to the others in the van only when he felt it necessary. His blonde hair, only just long enough to necessitate restriction, was pulled back tightly. He wore his “working” clothes already, not as shy as she had become, a tank top and jeans more than enough for him. The gun he held was a .44, slender and shining metal. He had a shotgun propped against the wall, but he knew they wouldn’t be needing that yet. A book he hadn’t picked up since he had set it down at the beginning of their ride sat on the bench nearby, bookmark a small burst of color on the otherwise unremarkable text.

The driver looked back at them in the rear-view window, a slender woman with brown hair and a polite, small ‘love me’ smile, a smile that denied the Desert Eagle that was tucked between the plastic storage piece between the passenger and driver’s seats and her leg. She wore a serviceable, loose shirt with sleeves long enough to cover up the scars she had gained in their last “outing”, and khaki jeans with enough room to move in. The only vanity she allowed herself was the thin black choker around her throat, hiding the last of the scars. Her green eyes seemed to hide secrets within, but she never spoke them aloud. She smiled at the two in the back, a smile that was at once a reassurance — “we’re okay” — and a warning — “be careful.”

The final member of their miniscule team sat in the passenger’s seat, pistol shoved down on the floor so that it wouldn’t be seen from out the window, which he looked out, hoping he wouldn’t spot any police officers on their trail. He was the lookout on this little voyage. His red hair was pulled back loosely, twin strands framing his face. His eyes were a dark red, like the glow of dying embers. He gave the others a thin smile and nodded when he saw the “city limits” sign. The smile was a façade, confidence he didn’t really feel. This wasn’t exactly a joy ride, after all.

“This is it?” Shane asked, looking up from the window, back at the others, his expression unreadable.

“Yes,” Vivian replied, keeping her eyes on the road.

“Adrian? Are they here already?” Evan queried, looking back at her.

“Yes.”