Crouched in the undergrowth, the sound of gunfire had caught Wren's attention long before it became a conscious sound. There was a pressure, a change in the air, something indefinable ingrained into her that had saved her life on more than one occasion. Perhaps it was a sensation, a feeling, perhaps it was tied into the the closeness that linked her mind with Rett's ... whatever it was, it had warned them in advance.
Months on from her little reckoning with the Alliance cruiser that had dared to hurt her lover, Wren looked nothing like the ragged little waif Rett had rediscovered during his hunt for her. Gone were the oversized clothes hanging on her body, the singular attempt to disguise her femininity by wearing as many layers as she could. Gone too was the shortness of her hair, replaced by the long layers of silk he had so berated her for cutting off in the first place. And yet beneath all of this, she was still the fugitive, still the soldier, weapons concealed upon her person ready for use at a moment's notice.
Gorram it, she'd thought the Alliance would have given up on them by now. They'd known the meet was a trap, almost from the moment the message had been delivered to them out here in the Glen. No self-respecting rebel sent a message with anyone dumb enough to demand proof that they were talking to the right people. No, Independents may be less advanced in technology than the Alliance, but what they lacked in hardware they made up for in cunning. So she and Rett had come out here, expecting to have to fight again for their freedom.
And now ... crouched in the undergrowth, she crawled forward, keeping herself undercover, towards the sound of the fire fight going on ahead of them. Peering through the foliage, she saw seven men, crates of what looked to be meds, and two others pinned down near the whore-house, a man and a woman.
Her hand rose, steadying the short-stacked carbine that came most readily to her fingers, sighting down the barrel thoughtfully. She glanced through the greenery to her side, towards the indistinct shape she knew was Rett, and sent one enquiring thought towards him.
"Gonna help them, are we?"
Months on from her little reckoning with the Alliance cruiser that had dared to hurt her lover, Wren looked nothing like the ragged little waif Rett had rediscovered during his hunt for her. Gone were the oversized clothes hanging on her body, the singular attempt to disguise her femininity by wearing as many layers as she could. Gone too was the shortness of her hair, replaced by the long layers of silk he had so berated her for cutting off in the first place. And yet beneath all of this, she was still the fugitive, still the soldier, weapons concealed upon her person ready for use at a moment's notice.
Gorram it, she'd thought the Alliance would have given up on them by now. They'd known the meet was a trap, almost from the moment the message had been delivered to them out here in the Glen. No self-respecting rebel sent a message with anyone dumb enough to demand proof that they were talking to the right people. No, Independents may be less advanced in technology than the Alliance, but what they lacked in hardware they made up for in cunning. So she and Rett had come out here, expecting to have to fight again for their freedom.
And now ... crouched in the undergrowth, she crawled forward, keeping herself undercover, towards the sound of the fire fight going on ahead of them. Peering through the foliage, she saw seven men, crates of what looked to be meds, and two others pinned down near the whore-house, a man and a woman.
Her hand rose, steadying the short-stacked carbine that came most readily to her fingers, sighting down the barrel thoughtfully. She glanced through the greenery to her side, towards the indistinct shape she knew was Rett, and sent one enquiring thought towards him.
"Gonna help them, are we?"