Luke Henry is cursed to live for (aneternity) wrote in rooms,
Re: Queens: Wren & Saint.
Saint didn't know the men on the floor, but Luke did. Not personally, no, but they were a common breed, he'd met men like them before and he would again. They would have killed Saint easily, without pause. They would have killed Wren too, but not before they did things, used her, as was typical of men like them. Dealers using children. They cared only for money, power, and drugs gave them both.
If they died, Luke wouldn't mourn them. If they never woke up, if they spent the remainder of their days paralyzed and broken, it was no less than they deserved. Saint could call it justification, he could call it whatever he liked. Luke called it truth; they were criminals. Murderers. He wouldn't regret what he'd done when it had saved Wren's life. He knew he was no hero, and he knew he wasn't good. But he was a man with everything to lose, a man who would cross every line imaginable to keep from losing what he held dear.
That was truth, too.
He watched, still holding tightly to Wren, as Saint approached the children. He listened as he spoke. If he wanted to take on the burden of finding the small ones safety alone, then it was of his own free will. We was not you. Luke had seen this before, he would have helped get the children to safety. But maybe, he realized, Saint wanted to separate himself from the two of them as quickly as possible. It was clear that he and Wren were of a different ilk, that their view was not the same as the photographer's. Maybe Saint didn't see war. Endless, all consuming, those who fought and those who couldn't or didn't caught in the crossfire. It was a bleak world, with few bright spots to lessen the blow. He did wonder, though, what things he had seen through his lens.
But the longer they stood there, the more a risk there was that someone would come. He had to cover his tracks, and they had to be gone if that happened.
"If you know places, if you can, then take them." Something in Luke's eyes softened as he looked at the children. He had a fleeting thought that maybe Thomas could help, but that would mean telling him and he wouldn't like this. He didn't wait to hear the boy's answer before stepping forward, fingers still entwined with Wren's. "But before you leave, I need you to say it," he said, his expression almost apologetic. Almost. "Your word, for whatever it's worth, that you won't tell anyone. Not even a hint. No matter what happens, you were never here. It's better that way. You don't want to be caught up in retaliation." Not that he thought there would be, not unless Saint did something stupid. But there was a spark in his gaze that suggested even if Saint did talk, he would have a very hard time corroborating his story.