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[indent][color=silver]She had talked herself out of it twice already.

The first time was Friday night itself, lying awake in her loft with the deadbolt freshly checked and the lights left on longer than usual, telling herself that going to find a man she'd walked out on without a word would be its own type of foolishness. The second time was Saturday, mid-shift, elbow deep in the evening's chaos, swearing she had handled worse than one unsettling conversation and didn't need anyone's help managing it.

By Sunday afternoon, Sienna had run out of reasons.

She didn't know Wicklow well. She knew it by its reputation, by the particular caution her mother had instilled in her about certain parts of the city, and by the fact that it sat close enough to the Lantern District to feel almost familiar and far enough to feel like a different country entirely. She found the church mostly by memory - a church volunteer, Bret had said, with that easy, self-deprecating laugh, and Saint Brigid's had surfaced from somewhere in the back of her mind without her being entirely sure where she'd first heard it.

It was smaller than she expected. Old limestone, weathered in the particular way buildings got when a city had simply continued existing around them for a very long time, a single gargoyle keeping watch over the door with the kind of permanent disapproval that felt almost endearing. She stood outside it for a moment longer than she needed to, doing the quiet internal calculation she did before walking into anywhere unfamiliar, and went in.

Sienna couldn’t remember the last time she’d been inside a church - in fact, she was entirely convinced she’d be set aflame the minute she crossed the threshold. But the interior was quiet and cool, smelling faintly of candle wax and old stone, and a handful of people sat scattered among the pews, their heads bowed in the stillness of private conversations with something larger than themselves. The brunette slipped her sunglasses down the bridge of her nose, peering over the frames and searching the room, but she didn’t see that familiar face anywhere.

She was still scanning the room when a voice spoke gently beside her.

[color=8FDEFF]“Looking for Bret?”[/color]

Standing next to Sienna, Father Evan Riordan dried off his hands with a small towel. For all intents and purposes the man looked less like a priest at that moment and more like a handyman. He was not wearing his frock and collar, instead he adorned himself in some old overalls which he had tied at the waist and a t-shirt that may once have been white but was now the dirty sort of beige that came from a job well done. Truly, the only sign of his commitment to the cloth was a crucifix around his neck and even that wasn’t fancy, a cheap dollar store cross that you could find anywhere and everywhere.

Evan was still a good looking man in decent shape even at fifty six years old. He hadn’t seen combat in decades by this point but the old routines had been sunk deep enough that they were in his blood. He was out running before the first break of daylight. He was moving things that were probably way too heavy before the first finance bro woke up for his matcha or boba or whatever the fuck those little pricks drank. And he was out on the street, handing out supplies to those in desperate need before the Vanguard superhero pulled on their freshest pair of tights.

[color=8FDEFF]“Eight out of ten times, any girl whose face could launch a thousand ships that comes in here is looking for him.”[/color] Evan was all too aware after six months of knowing Bret that he seemed to have some sort of way with women. Maybe it was the English thing? Or the wounded puppy eyes? Either way it was sometimes annoying. He was a priest, not an answering machine. 

[color=8FDEFF]“The other two are usually looking for me or want to confess they posted a racist tweet in high school.”[/color] Father Riordan chucked a little at his own joke. He tossed the towel over his shoulder before sliding his hands into the pocket of his trousers. [color=8FDEFF]“Sorry, a little levity goes a long way in a place like this.”[/color]

The laugh that escaped Sienna’s lips was genuine, but brief, leaving something closer to discomfort in its place. She slid her sunglasses up onto her head properly now, taking in the man standing in front of her. He had the particular ease of someone entirely unbothered by the gap between what he was supposed to look like and what he actually did. She found, somewhat against her will, that she liked him immediately.

The brunette took in the church again - the scattered heads in the pews, the way you could hear a pin drop, the particular quality of light through old glass - and felt, not for the first time since crossing the threshold, the distinct sensation of being somewhere she had absolutely no business being. A bar owner from the Lantern District, standing in a limestone church in Wicklow on a Sunday afternoon, looking for a man whose last name she knew and whose number she didn't have.

When she put it like that, it sounded considerably less reasonable than it had on the walk over.

[color=#B77B89]"The levity's appreciated,"[/color] she replied anyway, because she'd come this far and the alternative was turning around and pretending the last ten minutes hadn't happened. "I don’t have Twitter, so you have a good read," she added. [color=#B77B89]"Though maybe I'd lose the ship metaphor."[/color]

[color=#B77B89]"Sienna Mercer,"[/color] she introduced herself, [color=#B77B89]"I own a bar in the Lantern District. Bret came in a few nights ago."[/color] She paused, choosing the next part with care, the words sitting awkwardly in her throat. [color=#B77B89]"I wanted to speak with him. I wasn't entirely sure where else to look."[/color] The admission cost her more than she'd anticipated and she silently hoped that he was the kind of man who didn't press too hard on the parts of a story that had been deliberately left thin.

Evan mulled over her words for barely a few seconds. [color=8FDEFF]“Father Evan Riordan. Humble representative of this here pile of rubble and crap.”[/color] He leaned back against one of the old limestone pillars and folded his arms. [color=8FDEFF]“I’d shake your hand Miss Mercer but I’ve just been cleaning out our ancient gutters, you don’t want none of that I promise you.”[/color]

He examined her face with a little more detail now. She had spoken of Bret going to her bar in the Lantern District. That was certainly not his usual scene, too fancy, too upmarket. Wicklow was a beautiful gothic shithole and that’s just the way the Englishman likes it. Father Riordan had only known the man six months but it didn’t take a genius to figure out that he was a creature of habit and comfort. This in itself set off a little flag in his brain. It made him believe that Sienna was not one of Bret’s usual girls from the pub. She wasn’t actually looking for Bret at all; she was looking for The Pilgrim. 

[color=8FDEFF]“Well believe it or not, what with it being a Sunday but today is his day off.”[/color] Riordan pushed his round glasses up the bridge of his nose. [color=8FDEFF]“Though that usually doesn’t stop him from coming in. I can try and give him a call if you’d like?”[/color]

Very quickly, Sienna backpedaled.

[color=#B77B89]"No,"[/color] she blurted, the answer arriving far faster than she'd intended. [color=#B77B89]"I mean..."[/color] She caught herself, pressing her lips together for a moment as though she could reel the word back in.

The last thing she wanted was to inconvenience anyone, especially when she'd been the one to arrive unannounced. Father Riordan had offered without hesitation, a kindness she wasn’t sure she deserved as a stranger, but she'd already imposed enough by walking through the church doors looking for someone she barely knew.

Besides, she wasn't that desperate. At least that’s what she kept telling herself.

A small, apologetic smile found its way onto her face.

[color=#B77B89]"Please don't interrupt his day off on my account."[/color] She tucked a loose strand of dark hair behind one ear, glancing toward the heavy wooden doors, as if briefly entertaining the possibility of making a graceful exit. But her gaze settled again on Father Riordan. [color=#B77B89]"It's just..."[/color] Her jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. [color=#B77B89]"I was hoping to find him because I need to ask him something."[/color] 

Saying [i]need[/i] tasted sour. After all, Sienna Mercer had built an entire life around not needing anyone. Yet, here she was, standing in a church on a Sunday afternoon when she should have been sleeping. Pride had a cruel sense of humor.

[color=#B77B89]"But if he's not here, that's alright. You can just tell him Sienna stopped by. No message, no urgency."[/color] She hesitated, the faintest crease appearing between her brows. [color=#B77B89]“It’s not life-or-death.”[/color] A beat passed.

[color=#B77B89]“At least I don’t think it is.”[/color]

Father Riordan took a pause.

That last part she said, that started to penetrate his brain like a worm. He had seen too many people come to Saint Brigid’s looking for help. Too many that needed something that others in Calder City just could not give. Wicklow was not known as a generous place, nor even a very safe place. Yet Riordan had worked tirelessly to make the church feel that way. Bret had helped immeasurably in that. His youth and his enthusiasm had helped propel them a little further than they were before. His clandestine activities, the ones that involved the boy getting the ever loving shit beaten out of him on a nightly basis to protect the people of these fine streets, whilst Evan could not fully condone them, he also would not judge them because Bret, for all his faults, was helping and that was the whole damn point.

[color=8FDEFF]“Why don’t you take a seat over there, sweetheart? I’ve got some coffee on the go, I’ll pour you a cup. Tastes like shit but it’ll keep you going.”[/color]

Riordan didn’t really ask Sienna this so much as tell her. He crossed the room to the rectory and moved towards the coffee pot. He glanced up at one of the windows, something catching his eye, like a wave in the distance or a reflective glow. Shaking it off, Riordan pulled out his phone and sent a text.

[color=8FDEFF][quote]Bret - You might want to swing by, got a girl here. Sienna. Something’s not right. Bring cheese whiz.[/quote][/color]
Dropping the phone back into his pocket, Evan quickly poured two cups of coffee and grabbed his last pack of shortbread biscuits before heading back out into the church. He nodded his head towards the quiet parishioners, most of whom were in their own worlds of prayer and reflection before taking his seat opposite Sienna.

[color=8FDEFF]“Here you go. Drink, eat up. Unload if you want, otherwise, we can just chat shit until you don’t want to anymore. No pressure.”[/color]

[color=#B77B89]“No, really, you don’t have to-”[/color] Sienna began to protest, but Father Riordan was already halfway across the church fetching them something to drink. She tutted, knowing she should have just left without saying anything, but it was too late now. So the brunette let out a quiet sigh through her nose and resigned herself to the inevitable, and by the time he returned, she had settled into the seat he’d gestured to.

[color=#B77B89]"Thank you,"[/color] she replied appreciatively as he handed her the beverage. It smelled burnt and yet she wrapped both hands around the cup anyway, the warmth gave her something to hold onto besides the knot that had been sitting in her stomach since Friday night. She took a sip, and tried her best to steel her expression into something more neutral, but couldn’t help the smirk that graced her lips.

[color=#B77B89]"...You really weren't exaggerating."[/color] Sienna commented, but nonetheless, went back for seconds. For a minute or two, neither of them spoke, but the silence wasn't awkward. Around them, the church simply carried on in its own subdued rhythm - the creaking sound of the pews as the parishioners moved ever so slightly, the crackling of a candle nearing the end of its wick. The brunette found her gaze drawn to the long shadows cast along the walls and tiled floor from the stained glass windows, the afternoon light shifting as the day ebbed.

[color=#B77B89]"I haven't been inside a church in years,"[/color] she admitted eventually, her voice softer than before. [color=#B77B89]"Not since I was a kid, I think. My mother used to drag me when I was younger. Every Sunday. She was convinced that if I sat through enough sermons, something would eventually stick."[/color] Sienna glanced over at Father Riordan, taking in the overalls, the stained shirt, and the complete lack of ceremony about him. A faint smile tugged at her lips.

[color=#B77B89]“No offense, but I think I was expecting someone a little more… priest-like.”[/color]

[color=8FDEFF]“Most people do.”[/color]

Father Riordan smiled warmly at the young woman before lacing his fingers through the handle of his mug. “You know, sometimes I do wear the whole frock and collar gimmick, even add a rosary if I’m feeling fancy but not that often.” With his free hand, Evan once again pushed up his glasses. His eyes weren’t what they used to be but you didn’t need to have twenty twenty vision to see that Sienna was absolutely stunning. Young Bret had exquisite taste.

[color=8FDEFF]“Though to be honest with you, I think sometimes that whole, traditional visual scares people away. Which is understandable, there’s a lot to be afraid of if you read the news. Not all my brothers in Christ are as saintly as they pretend. So I try not to give people any more to be scared of.”[/color]

The Catholic Church had not done itself any favours over the last few years and Father Riordan was not blind to this fact. Even years prior, before he refound his Faith, he did not fully trust those that stood at the altars and preached the word of God. Which was why he didn’t do it. Evan Riordan was a Catholic, he had been all his life but he did not want his church, Saint Brigid’s to be a place that housed fear, it was a place to house hope. Which was why it was welcoming to all colours and creeds. It was why he said good morning to the Rabbi every day, it was why he didn’t hold traditional sermons or fuel hateful rhetoric. It was why he let the Pilgrim walk through the door.

[color=8FDEFF]“Take Bret.”[/color] Riordan began. [color=8FDEFF]“English guy, stands out like a sore thumb. Every day, walks through those big oak doors and looks like he’s gone ten rounds with Tyson. Yet everyone is drawn to him. They listen to him and they feel safe with him. Why?”[/color] He raised the piping hot mug of magma to his lips and blew softly for a few seconds. After letting the black tar coat his throat, he continued. [color=8FDEFF]“Because he does stand out. Because you can tell, he’s not from here. He’s strange, yeah but he’s warm. Something about him just radiates it. If I could bottle that energy, those pews would not be so empty.”[/color]

Sienna looked down into the coffee in her hands, watching the dark surface tremble slightly with the movement of her fingers. Father Riordan had both hit the nail on the head and somehow also deduced the underlying reason she was here without even realizing it. Sure, shit may have hit the fan the other night at the casino, yet there wasn’t a single moment that the brunette had felt uneasy in his presence.

[color=#B77B89]“How long has Bret volunteered here?”[/color] She asked, not able to offer much else up about the Englishman that the older man didn’t already say.

[color=8FDEFF]“Six months.”[/color] Father Riordan responded fairly swiftly. [color=8FDEFF]“The problem with old parishes like this? Most people who actually care about them are old!”[/color] He raised his hands like his words landed as some big surprise. [color=8FDEFF]“They die out pretty fast and that was happening here. We don’t really have a young base here, so I sent word through the church that I needed help. For whatever reason the outreach program call went across the pond and our boy Bret responded.”[/color]

Evan glanced towards the stained glass above them, fractured light beginning to pour through in various resplendent swatches against the pale internal walls. It was a sight he could never tire of. [color=8FDEFF]“I didn’t really have any other takers so I brought him over. When I picked him up at the airport all he had was the clothes on his back, his passport and cell phone. The boy is quite nuts.”[/color] He decided to reach for a biscuit. Whilst Sienna didn’t strike him in any way as malnourished, she did look slightly down. Sugar, he found, often helped, even just a little bit. [color=8FDEFF]“Hadn’t even organised a place to stay, so I had to do that for him too. Once I saw him in action though? I didn’t really mind. Kid’s a machine and all he’s done since being here is make it better.”[/color]

Sienna listened, and let the picture that Father Riordan was painting settle quietly into the space beside everything else she already knew about Bret Lowther.

Which, she was realizing, was considerably less than she assumed.

She thought about the man she’d met across the bar - the easy confidence, the charcoal suit that fit like it had been made for him, the particular quality about someone entirely at home in whatever room they happened to be standing in. She hadn’t pictured him arriving anywhere with nothing. It didn’t fit the version of him she’d been carrying around since Friday morning.

The brunette wondered how much of that version was accurate and how much she had made up to fill the gaps. She reached for a shortbread without really deciding to, the way you did when someone put something in front of you and the conversation was doing more work than your hands were.

Father Riordan clearly knew the Bret that showed up to the church everyday - the one who added value, the one who made people feel seen. She wondered how much he knew about the [i]other[/i] one. The one with the gun, the one who’d sat at a table full of people trading intelligence and put one of Directorate Nine’s most sensitive assets in the center of it without blinking. The one who had spent years working for one of the most selective and clandestine organizations in the world before leaving to, apparently, do [i]this[/i].

She kept that particular thread to herself.

[color=#B77B89]“Seems like he was flying by the seat of his pants.”[/color] Sienna laughed to herself, before looking up from her coffee and meeting Father Riordan’s eyes with an easy, open expression. [color=#B77B89]“He didn’t mention much about what he did before,”[/color] she lied through her teeth, phrasing things carefully in the way she normally did when she wanted information without asking for it outright. [color=#B77B89]“Before he came here, I mean. To Calder City.”[/color]

[color=8FDEFF]“Yeah, service will do that to a person.”[/color] 

Father Riordan traced the rim of his cup with the tip of his index finger. His eyes drifted down to his own rippling reflection in the dark liquid, lost in fogged thoughts or perhaps memories of times gone by. [color=8FDEFF]“A lot of people find it hard, you know. Coming back to the world after seeing the worst parts of it.”[/color] He didn’t raise his eyes as the words left his lips. [color=8FDEFF]“I could see in him the same thing that I’ve seen in so many Vets that just don’t know how to rid themselves of their ghosts. I mean, heck, I see the same thing in my own mirror everyday.”[/color]

When he did move his eyes back up to Sienna, they were far more somber, mournful compared to the way they were before. [color=8FDEFF]“It’s why we do what we do. To fight back just a little beat each day, however we can. For Bret, I think helping out here and in…other places is his way of fighting back against his ghosts.”[/color]

As if on cue, the side door at the back end of the church hall opened and in stepped the topic of the duo’s conversation, Bret. He looked tired and had even more bruises and cuts than before. His walk towards them was slow but had a subtle hurriedness to it, this was undoubtedly down to some unseen ache or pain. He arrived at the table and placed all of his fingers down on its flat surface, almost as if steadying himself.

Before he even uttered a word, Bret’s face quickly lifted into that easy going smirk that it always seemed to be in when someone was looking. [color=#C8E39A]“Miss Mercer, always a pleasure.”[/color] His eyes shifted to Riordan. [color=#C8E39A]“Old man.”[/color] He greeted.

Sienna heard the door first - the particular creak of old wood that didn't quite fit the rhythm of the church's quiet - and looked up in time to watch Bret Lowther make his way toward them with the careful, deliberate pace of a man whose body was filing several formal complaints about the request.

She took him in properly as he crossed the room. His bruises had multiplied since the casino, his cuts too. He looked like someone had taken the version of him she'd seen at Ma Kelly's - already worse for wear - and put him through several more rounds of torment. She felt something tighten in her chest that she elected not to examine too closely.

Then Bret gave her that smile - that infuriating, entirely unbothered smile - and she felt the tightness shift into something else entirely. Something that might, under different circumstances and in a different building, have been relief.

She didn't let that show.

Instead, she looked at Father Riordan, who studied his coffee with the innocence of a man who had absolutely sent a text message while he was supposedly fetching biscuits.

[color=#B77B89]"Is it socially acceptable,"[/color] she exhaled, with the measured calm of someone choosing their words very, [i]very[/i], carefully, [color=#B77B89]"to curse out a priest?"[/color] She let the question hang in the air for a moment - genuinely uncertain, given the setting. 

[color=#B77B89]"No message, no urgency,"[/color] Sienna repeated her words from earlier, giving the older man a look that was approximately forty percent reproach and sixty percent something she didn't have a clean name for. [color=#B77B89]"I believe those were my exact words, Father Riordan.”[/color] 

[color=8FDEFF]“I would say I’m sorry but I’m not.”[/color] The older gentleman shook his head. [color=8FDEFF]“You’ve had a look in your eye from the minute you walked in here. Pretty hard to ignore really, so I did what I needed to. It’s what we do here.”[/color] Turning his head to Bret, he continued. [color=8FDEFF]“I’m gonna leave you two crazy kids alone.”[/color]

Sienna sighed before glancing back at Bret.

[color=#B77B89]"You look like shit,"[/color] she stated simply by way of greeting, giving him a once over. [color=#B77B89]"Considerably worse than the last time I saw you."[/color] Her eyes moved briefly over the fresh cuts, the new bruises, the careful way he was holding himself, and then back to his eyes. [color=#B77B89]“Is that a regular occurrence, or did this weekend hold a particular grudge against you?"[/color]

Father Riordan got to his feet, coffee in hand. [color=8FDEFF]“She’s right though, you do look like shit.”[/color] The priest casually took one more sip from his mug before peeling off towards the scattered congregation of Saint Brigid’s.

Bret cocked an eyebrow for a moment, it seemed like those five words had become the common greeting for him. Still, they weren’t wrong, he had spent the last week or so getting his arse handed to him by thugs, killers, hyper human monsters. He’d like to think the fact that he was still standing at all was some form of divine intervention but in spite of his beliefs, Bret knew better. It was more stubbornness and hard headiness that was keeping him on his feet.

[color=#C8E39A]“I’d say semi regular? Honestly I’ve been hit too many times in the head this week to really think about it.”[/color]

The Pilgrim took the now empty seat opposite the brunette beauty, albeit slowly. [color=#C8E39A]“Ooh shortbread.”[/color] He reached for the sweet treat with an almost childlike glee. [color=#C8E39A]“Fucking love shortbread,”[/color] He inhaled the buttery goodness of the biscuit like a starved animal before smelling back into reality.

[color=#C8E39A]“So what’s going on, Miss Sienna?”[/color]

Sienna opened her mouth with every intention of saying something measured and vague, something that would buy her another thirty seconds or so to decide how much she wanted to hand over across a church pew.

[color=#B77B89]“The coffee here is terrible.”[/color] she replied instead, [color=#B77B89]“You should really do something about that.”[/color]

Bret looked at her.

Not the smile this time, just the look - steady, unhurried, the particular quality of attention she first noticed across her own bar and hadn’t been able to shake since. The kind that didn’t demand anything and somehow got everything anyway.

She exhaled slowly.

[color=#B77B89]“Someone came into the bar on Friday night,”[/color] she explained, her voice dropping into the register she used when the room needed to be small. [color=#B77B89]“Alone, around 11pm. He knew about the casino and what happened. He knew about you - not by name, but by your accent. By what you gained at the table.”[/color] She turned the mug in her hands without even realizing she was doing it. 

[color=#B77B89]“He knew where I lived.”[/color] Sienna paused, letting that sit, and a subtle chill danced up her spine at the mention. [color=#B77B89]“My loft, above the bar.”[/color]

[color=#B77B89]“He came to remind me that neutral ground only stays neutral as long as the right people agree it should.”[/color] Her eyes stayed on Bret’s. [color=#B77B89]“Apparently my recent extracurriculars have given some important people pause.”[/color] Her jaw tightened. [color=#B77B89]“Then he mentioned the missing Grays. The ones that have been turning up dead and drained. He knew [i]I[/i] was a Gray. Somehow.”[/color] 

She sighed.

[color=#B77B89]“He mentioned my staff too. That’s what’s bothering me the most.”[/color] Sienna revealed, [color=#B77B89]“I can manage a threat against myself. I’ve done it before. But the people who work for me didn’t sign up for this. That’s not something I’m willing to let sit.”[/color] She took another sip of the awful coffee, mostly to give her something to do with her hands.

[color=#B77B89]“I don’t normally rattle this easily.”[/color] The brunette acknowledged, [color=#B77B89]“In case that wasn’t already apparent. But I’ve been running this conversation back in my head for the last two days and I can’t place his face. A man like that, in my bar, and I can’t even figure out who sent him.”[/color]

Guilt.

Guilt hit Bret far harder than any Gray ever could. Sienna had built herself a safe haven; a term here that stretched in various different directions. In one night, in his single quest to find Tae Park, he brought some type of danger to her door. That, of course, was never his intention. She was now coming to him because, in her own words, she was rattled. A less terrifying way of saying that she was scared of what had happened at the Velvet Room.

[color=#C8E39A]“I’m sorry.”[/color] He said with delicate honesty, [color=#C8E39A]“I didn’t mean to bring something down on you.”[/color] Bret tried to take in her words in detail, tried to do the mental arithmetic and work out who it could be that approached her. There were some logical leaps to make. Calder City was not a place that was short of criminal organisations. The question at this point was which ones, if any, they had crossed on their previous meeting.

[color=#C8E39A]“We can figure this out…”[/color] Before he could say anything else, the hairs on the back of his neck stood up. This wasn’t the Pilgrim, there was no overt warning of anger or trouble. It was a feeling, one honed from years of avoiding bullets, of avoiding violence and fear itself. The temperature of the room, which was already low, dropped considerably, Bret looked up at the stained glass window above them and narrowed his eyes slightly before the feeling vanished. 

[color=#C8E39A]“Colder than a witches tit in here. You wanna get out of here?”[/color]

Sienna looked at him for a long moment after the apology - long enough that it might have appeared she was considering what to do with it. In actuality, she was regretting her decision to come here to find him. She could hear the guilt in his tone and it wounded her to know she was now someone else’s problem. A burden on his shoulders. This was why she normally handled things alone.

[color=#B77B89]“Don’t be, please.”[/color] She replied finally, [color=#B77B89]“I made my own choices on Thursday night. You didn’t drag me to the casino.”[/color] She meant it. That was the thing she kept on coming back to in the two days of running the conversation with the man at the bar back in her head - she’d gone willingly, she’d used her abilities willingly, she’d walked out of a room with intelligence in her bag and a man she barely knew by her side and had found, somewhere in the middle of all of it, that she didn’t regret any of it. That was its own complicated fact to sit with. She was still sitting with it.

Then she watched his eyes go to the window.

She felt something then too - a shift in the air, subtle enough that most people would have written it off as a draft sneaking through old stones. She didn’t write it off - she had spent too many years being attuned to the way a room moved to dismiss it as nothing. The brunette could have sworn she’d seen the light refract differently in that split second her gaze met the stained pane of glass. 

[color=#B77B89]“Yeah,”[/color] Sienna quickly rose to her feet, trying to shake off the sudden unease that had come over her. [color=#B77B89]“Let’s go - I need caffeine that isn’t jet fuel.”[/color][/color][/indent]
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