the moonlight stopped owing amanda favors a while ago. there was symbiosis once, parasites doing what they do best, feeding and leeching in tandem. she lit cigarettes under a black sky and thought that this was no different than home, really. flicking lighters just to have light, finding that every dark room isn't much darker than the last one. it's all a game of relativity: our father, who art in heaven, i've met worse than you.
by the same law, hoffman can't be much more of a monster. he'd take it as a challenge, wouldn't he, because men like him always do ( — and women like amanda watch. they lick their lips, flip a coin, and make either a new enemy or a martyr ). she's worked with enough beasts for a lifetime and still the detective pricks himself against the leather of her skin with a vengeance. a prick here, a bite there, slobber and blood left at her ankle. maybe you're the worst, but i'll outlive you too.
so even as he grunts, she's working the scene out for herself. her boots are bulky, legs prone to bruising themselves with the effort, but she's thrown herself over fences just like this one a thousand times before. "i got it," amanda mutters, and makes quick, if clunky, work of scaling. muscle memory suits such a physical thing; in no time she's hoisted herself to the top, to the halfway point, duplex windows blinking and winking not far now. she balances herself and spares hoffman a masked glance, savoring for a beat the look of him so far below.
a few more wiggles, chain clink-clink-clinking in the night air, and amanda finds herself close enough to drop to the ground below. she lands with a thud, eyes scanning in search of a weak spot and hand falling to the lowest pocket of her cargo pants. she pulls a hammer, leads herself to a lock, and bashes one into the other 'til something clicks.
