Of Running and Regret.

[James "Saint" Reilly]

The sun was just setting, the lazy tendrils of pale orange light stretching out over the horizon, consuming the city in a tender copper glow and alighting the surface of the bay in fiery, rippling glass. The day birds had quieted and fled, giving way to creatures of the night that were just stirring; all was pleasantly hushed, however, as Saint stood on the rickety docks, listening to the water lap over the worn beams beneath his feet. It was a beautiful moment, and he had timed it just perfectly- there was no one but him around.

Bouncing a flat stone in the palm of his hand, the runner squinted out at the dying sun, who had, in her final moments, set off a brilliant display of colors. Scarlet red and vibrant orange gave way to a fading violet, that had curved around the darkening horizon like a forming bruise. With a flick of his wrist, Saint sent the stone skittering over the water's surface, feeling, as he always did in quiet, secluded areas, forlornly pensive.

It was a good thing, he decided; after years of battling with strange, frustrating memories bubbling to the surface at the most inconvenient of times, the man once known as James Reilly had at last given in. During a miserable two weeks, he allowed himself to relive parts of his past, during which he neither ate well nor slept soundly. It was, he had concluded, a result of emotional constipation; now, whenever he felt he needed to reflect on the past, he allowed himself to, quietly, in control. He was fine with re-examining the past, no matter how marred and riddled with regret it may be.

But no one would ever know what haunted him. He would never tell; there was never anyone close enough to him to guess, anyways, and he was never going to divulge his secret.

[Dominic "Shadow" Blackwood]

I ran from the two Blues who began chasing after me and led them down to the old docks. The place was pretty empty by now, just a few fisherman still running around the place so it was easy for me to find a few boxes to springboard off and onto one of the old peir buildings. The roof was covered in broken tiles, holes and it was slick with rain. Although compared to a prison wall these things are a doddle. I saw the Blues running along side me, trying to keep track of my route, and just shook my head while grinning. Not going to happen my gun-toting friends. I jamp down and delivered a round-house kick to one of the Blues head and knocking him out before grabbing the other one and running with him to the edge of the dock. Unfortunately there was some guy standing in my way. "Mate, watch out!" I shouted out to him, hoping he would move out of the way in time.

[James "Saint" Reilly]

There was disquiet in the background; far more annoyed than worried, Saint took his time in casting away the stone he held, watching it skip twice across the water's surface before disappearing into the bay depths. He then turned slowly on the spot, looking to see who in hell could have been causing enough noise to wake the devil.

Not a moment to soon, for as soon as the man had caught sight of the culprit, another man of approximately his own age, he was yelling at him to move. An eyebrow tweaked, Saint took a step back, allowing the newcomer to deal with the Blue he held. The Blue's partner lay motionless on the ground, already taken care of; with a fleeting tinge of regret, Saint wished he had bothered to be bothered with the situation. He had missed all the fun.

"Evenin', then," he said as the man dispatched his Blue, his tone faintly sardonic. "I'd lend you a hand, there, but looks like you've got 'em cleaned up all on your own."

He was wandering toward the first Blue, prodding him with the toe of his shoe. When the cop's head merely lulled to one side, Saint crouched, relieving him of both firearm and handcuffs, which he stowed in the waistband of his jeans. Talkative at the strangest of times, Saint loaded and reloaded the pistol contemplatively.

"What were they all over you for?" he asked conversationally.

[Dominic "Shadow" Blackwood]

I looked at the guy as he disarmed the unconcious Blue before awnsering. "A lot of reasons, but the main one was probably that they didn't approve of a friend of mine." It was obvious this guy was a runner but I couldn't be too trusting, still couldn't hurt to tell him a few things. "So, you're a runner too?"

[James "Saint" Reilly]

"Indeed I am," Saint said, finally putting away the pistol and donning his characteristic grin. "Been one for too damn long, if you ask me."

He meandered over to where the man stood, suddenly fixing him with a questioning look, an eyebrow tweaked. "Hell, you aren't one of those gang freaks, are you?" he asked teasingly. "A, a "Red", or an "Orange", or whatever? Because, brother, if so," he raised his hands in a show of peace, "I don't want any trouble. I'm running for me."

[Dominic "Shadow" Blackwood]

I chuckled at the guy's comment and shook my head, grinning. "Nah, I'm a newbie in the game. And as you can see, I'm not wearing any gang colours or proper running gear." I gestured to my navy tank top and jeans. "Blue isn't exactly the friendliest colour in this town."