Young Writers Society

"So he brought you here." She didn't sound particularly happy about that particular decision on Bobby's part.

"Well, yeah. It's not like we went to McDonalds first."

She huffed a laugh, "I knew you didn't have a time machine, love. I just want to know why he didn't take you to, ya know, a hospital or something. There's hardly ever anyone here, but it's not like it's the safest place in the world for someone with a gunshot wound."

"I didn't really think to ask, honestly," Kazimir said with another shrug and a sigh. "I don't think I've ever been to the hospital for myself in my life, so it didn't really faze me."

"Right." She leaned her head back and stared up at the ceiling. Some lingering suspicion managed to form into a thought at the back of her head. And inkling that he could be a spy. An assassin sent to kill the Hound by leveraging the local pigeon who might know a thing or two.

That thought didn't last long. He wasn't playing his cards very well if that was his plan. Besides, if he killed her now, it would probably be a mercy. Her father would not be pleased about her getting hurt like this. Especially not about her leaving a witness alive long enough to possibly say something about that they saw.

Bottom line? She was dead.

Kazimir watched Queenie as her gaze drifted to the ceiling, and he wondered if him being here was causing trouble for the both of them. He couldn't really place it, but there was a strange sort of tension he wish he knew the reason for.

Of course, that could simply be credited to the fact that he was a strange man in their home with two kids, and that would be enough, but like Queenie said, they weren't just normal kids.

There was another pause between them before he spoke again.

"Who taught you about guns?" he asked.

"I've had a few teachers," she replied without thinking. The moment the question properly registered, though, she stiffened and glanced at him, trying to read his intentions.

Kazimir nodded. "Hmm. My parents taught me most of what I know. They liked to keep it in the family. It might've been nice to have a teacher who wasn't my dad."

Queenie wasn't much more relaxed, but she shifted and forced herself to look like she was. Her free hand went back to work putting the gun back together.

"It wasn't nice," she said simply. If she could just keep her grip....

"Ah." Kazimir clicked his tongue, understanding. It wasn't nice to have his dad as a teacher either.

"When I was little I learned about weapons really early. I've kind of grown up with all that stuff my whole life. I can't remember a time where I didn't have something in my hands - either something that was given to me intentionally or something I found on my own." He chuffed. "My parents started locking things up more after a few scares when I was a kid. I don't really remember much, but my dad says they actually ended up putting child locks on damn near everything in our home. Apparently I was determined. I think I was just born that way."

He shrugged his head to the side.

"People don't tend to be born one way or another, I've found," she said. Finally, the pieces clicked into place.

She picked up the gun and flipped it over in her hand, fiddling with it idly.

Kazimir looked over at Queenie again. "What do you think makes us the way we are, then?"

She shrugged a shoulder. "People tend to all be the same when it comes down to it. Just a bunch of issues shambling around in borrowed bodies trying to hurt each other."

Kazimir stared at her as he processed her words. A bunch of issues shambling around in borrowed bodies trying to hurt each other felt like something from a poem, or a song, but it didn't make much sense to him at first, and even after repeating it in his head a few times, it felt more like a nursery rhyme than a sentence.

He squinted, thinking very hard.

"So basically, we've all got issues," he concluded.

She snorted. "Close enough."