Queens: Wren & Saint.
Scaling fences was something left behind in her past. Her present was the sticky hands of dead children, syrup between their fingers and making their kisses sweet and lingering, like the death she believed had taken them months earlier in a foreign door, blade scrape against the ground until sparks flew. Her life was quiet, and white walls, and Luke didn't like soup anymore. But she still made it sometimes when he slept, or when he went to work with that dragging gait, like leaving the quiet safety of the house was an undesired thing.
But her fingers remembered how to hold onto chainlink. Her feet remembered how to find purchase in their sandals. She thought maybe she should buy a balisong, and maybe her fingers remembered that too. But now, she just scaled the fence in her bright yellow, sunshine landing on the darkness that lived on the other side and away from the propositions that had come down the dark alley with the trashcan blazing. She'd stopped then, feet stilling in old habit, but she wasn't a working girl anymore, and she didn't need to stop for men with filthy fingers and alley grime.
She took a step forward, intent on following the little boy and his curls, when she heard her name in this place where it shouldn't be. But she wasn't scared, because this was home. In so many ways, that big house with the white walls, it was pretending. It was a layer of paint over the girl with the cinnamon hair, and this she was born to.
She turned, a smile as she belatedly recognized the intonation as a thing of memory. "Saint." She pointed where the boy went, behind the alley and into the narrow dark cavern there, where back doors opened onto chainlink and long-dead grasses. "I'll lose him."