|Trace| вσυηтy - ∂єαℓιηg wιтн тнє я郃-яჃ |Marjorie|

Goddamnit, cell phone.

Where was he, even? Not physically -- heck no. Sure, wandering around aimlessly with no clue as to your position was alright (at best) during the day, but at night that was a whole different story. You were pretty much asking to be robbed, assaulted or worse if you found yourself still unsure of where you were at lights out. Trace absently wondered how many people exactly had met their ends like that. Probably lots, given the rate of gang crimes in the South District. No one would even go looking there. And even if they did, it wouldn't make a difference. In the South District, it was survival of the fittest in those situations.

What a horrible way to die.

...Okay. So not the time to be thinking of things like that. Wow. Way to go. He had probably been in the midst of discovering the final secret to unlocking the cure for cancer, or for ending world hunger, or the secret to infinite knowledge -- but nope! -- not if his phone had anything to say about it. And now all that potential knowledge was gone from the world, and the worst part of it was that he wasn't even sure what it was that he'd forgotten. That was always the most aggravating feeling. That nagging sensation of 'I was just thinking something important. But what?'

Look what that Johnathon Cash fellow did. He'd have to go find him and give him a nice stern apology to all those out there who could have been helped if he wasn't so busy stuffing his pockets with other people's stuff. Or at least if he'd been a semi-competent thief who knew not to get caught. Jeez.

Wait.

Johnathon Cash.

Mid-twenties, four counts of attempted robbery?

As in, the guy who broke into SynapTech the other day without so much as touching a single sheet of paper on the reception desk? Or, at least, that's what the official report given by his uncle said. Off the record, there was the one briefcase he'd been carrying with him, but that couldn't just be reported missing, because of (presumably) what was inside. Though, whatever it was, it was pretty damn important if his uncle had gone through such great lengths to keep it safe and in his possession (though, one could argue that apparently it wasn't safe enough).

Yeah. That was him all right.

There goes the rest of my night, he thought as he pivoted on his heel and dashed off in the other direction.

She growled at him quietly, sending the frog to sit on his face and suffocate him as she shifted her position to sit on his stomach, knife at his throat, boots pinning his wrists down. If he didn’t have her frog on his face he’d be getting an excellent view up her skirt (though she wore sliding shorts underneath now). “I can control my temper quite well thanks, but you’re annoying and I don’t feel up to chatting or kissing up to your dick. Now tell me what I want to know or I’ll send some tadpoles down your throat.” She let the frog up just enough for him to breathe and talk, tracing his Adam’s apple with the tip of her blade.

Being a forced whore meant she didn’t really notice the compromising position anymore, not thinking for an instant that the boy she was trying to get information from might be uncomfortable. She really just wanted to go back to bed.