a/n: oh boy, here we go again

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"You'd like to purchase what?"

The retailer gawked at me while her fingers rested on the shiny pearl necklace nuzzled in her neckline. I never thought I would actually see the expression "clutch her pearls" enacted in real life, and mind you, my childhood was full of some pretty conservative, posh women with drawers full of pearls.

I guess that's one thing I could cross off my bucket list.

"The dress," I repeated. "I'd like to buy this dress please." I took a look at her name tag. Well, Jane certainly wasn't being very accommodating.

Jane pulled her lips tight into some semblance of an empty smile, and she cleared her throat. "Miss. This is a fifteen-thousand-dollar dress."

"I know."

Her eyes glanced up and down my body and the faintest hint of judgment flickered behind her long lashes. And by faintest, I'm being sarcastic—this lady's disbelief was written all over her face. Sure, my ripped jeans and oversized sweater with holes in the sleeves didn't exactly scream "girl who could drop fifteen-grand on a dress." Everyone else shopping in this boutique was clothed in designer pieces, tailored to their bodies, with brand name bags dangling from their wrists. Compared to them, I stuck out as very much not a regular customer. I guess I could understand Jane's blatant skepticism, but I mean, she didn't have to keep staring at me like that.

"Alright," Jane said. "We'll be glad to ring this up for you." Her tone showed no sign of pleasure. Rather, a sly smile twisted across her lips as she waved her hand. Another retailer came rushing over with a garment bag ready. 

Within seconds, they had the wine-colored gown secured in the bag and were carrying it over to the front register with a delicacy that was more fitted for frail glass than a lump of red fabric. But that pile of fabric was actually a custom-designed gown fresh off of the runway from the prior winter season, made of the softest silk available on the market, hand-dyed with one of the most expensive burgundy dye.

I met Jane at the counter, watching as she rung up the order. Any well-respected customer buying an item of that price and grandeur typically had their cards swiped for them while they sat on spotless white lounge chairs sipping bubbly champagne. In fact, there was a mother and daughter here doing exactly that. I watched a young woman present the mom her card back on a black tray, almost bowing before walking away. Where was my glass of rosé? Okay, yeah, I was only seventeen but that girl with her mom was definitely nowhere near twenty-one and she got alcohol. The injustice.

"Will you be paying with card or cash?" Jane asked. Her smile grew a little more saccharine yet cruel at the same time. She folded her hands and waited as I reached into the ratty brown bag that I carried around with me. I found that the fraying of the faux leather straps and the multiple stains on the material really added to the look I was going for.

I pulled out my cousin Elijah's credit card but then paused. Jane would definitely ask for my I.D. if I presented her with a card, and I wasn't able to use my own (Jane was probably hoping for some fraudulent action today--either that or a "CARD DECLINED" situation). I had no access to my own bank account since any use of it would put me back on the grid and that was not an ideal situation to be in. Also, I was not supposed to be in Manhattan right now. Triggering all the security on my bank account would land Elijah and mine's head on a silver platter.

So instead, I took out a wad of cash. Jane's eyes almost bugged out of her sockets as I laid down bill by bill until I reached that sweet, sweet fifteen grand.

Was this anymore low-key than using a card? Absolutely not.

"There," I said, pushing the bills against the counter so that they were all perfectly aligned, then handed them straight to Jane with a big smile. She took the money without saying a word. There was a bead of sweat forming on her temple. The malicious air around her was gone. 

"You can check them," I said, seeing her fingers twitch for the counterfeit pen next to the keyboard.

"I'm so sorry, we check all bills at this boutique," Jane said as she marked them up, one by one, with a tight smile. "It's a security measure."

Oh, sure.

But instead of saying anything, I kept quiet and waited for Jane as she placed the final hundred-dollar bill on top of the green stack. Her mouth formed a small 'o' and her shoulders relaxed as she let out a long breath of air. After stuffing the bills into the register, Jane then grabbed a big white bag from below the counter, and packed up the dress gently before handing it over to me.

"Have a wonderful day, miss. Please come again," Jane said, not quite meeting my eyes.

"Thanks, Jane" I said, saluting her with two fingers before taking the bag. On my way out, I nodded to the security guard who had been trailing me inside right up until I went into the dressing room.

Out on the streets of New York, the city air washed over me, diffusing away the heavily perfumed floral scent that had begun to seep into my clothes and hair during shopping. Checking my phone and seeing that it was only 3:30 p.m., I figured Elijah was still at that baristas convention he originally dragged me to New York for.

I sent him a quick text letting him know that I would be going back to our hotel, and then headed towards the closest subway entrance. When I swiped the paper card through the electronic reader, all of a sudden, the hairs on the back of my neck stood up.

I glanced over my shoulder. Dozens of people were trailing behind me, but one particular long-legged man stood out. There was nothing out of the ordinary about him. He was dressed in a plain black jacket with a thin white sweater underneath, but he was always in the corner of my vision every time I turned my head. Was he just a stranger headed to Times Square like me? Or was it someone worse?

He got on the same train I did. The subway lurched forward, and our eyes met. His arms were folded against his chest and he was leaning against the subway doors.

It'd been three years since I'd gotten this feeling in my gut. I had my fair share of kidnappings and assassination. At this point, I'd developed an acute Spidey-sense for upcoming life-threatening situations and right then, all the warnings in my head were screaming.

A rational person would think: this is New York City. It wasn't that uncommon for someone to take the same subway as you.

But he mimicked my movements too closely. If I shifted which leg had more weight on it, he would do the same. If I moved my gaze down the subway and looked back at him, he would be looking in the same direction. At every platform stop, his eyes were fixated on me, as though watching whether or not I was going to leave, and his whole body tensed up like he was prepared to run.

Finally, when the subway arrived at the platform for Times Square, I hopped off, my fingers clutching the handles of the bag. The man got off, too, and within seconds he was in my way.

"Excuse me," I said curtly, trying to move around him. He blocked me again, and like a stereotypical villain, pushed back his jacket just enough to show me a gun tucked into the waistband of his jeans. Well, that wasn't too safe, was it?

"We've been looking for you a long time, Sparrow," the man said, his voice barely audible above the clamoring of the crowd around us. Even so, I could catch the Cimerian accent in his English. My muscles tensed at the mention of my real surname. 

"I think you've got the wrong bird," I said. Idiot, no! you say that every time this happens, this is how they identify you!

"Gotchu," the man grinned.

See?

The man stepped closer to me. I backed up, right against someone's chest. I turned on the heels of my sneakers and looked up at a much taller and broader man. To my right, a young woman in similarly black and white clothes paced around the stairs. To my left were two more men, standing together with their arms crossed, leaning against some metal railways. 

"Now," the lanky man said, "you best come quietly if you want to live."

I turned back to look at him, a brow raised. There was no chance in hell I would ever come quietly. "That's cute," I said. "You seem to have forgotten who I was."

And then I opened my mouth to scream.

Every single person with working ears turned their head towards us. I raised a finger at the lanky man and screamed again. "Help! Please help, this man has a gun!"

Now that everyone's attention was on him--time to fucking run.

"After her! Don't let her get away!" the man yelled in Cimerian. I heard exclamations of shock and anger ripple around me. A quick look over my shoulder showed that they were right on my heels, shoving aside anyone who couldn't move away fast enough.

Up ahead of me was an exit. Someone swore at me as I had to push them aside to run, and the swears repeated as my pursuers followed me out of underground New York.

I emerged a block away from Times Square. Without thinking too much, I ran straight for one of the busiest areas in the entire metropolis. I needed to get to the hotel. I needed to get in contact with my cousin.

But as I was passing a half-naked Captain America posing with a group of girls, a gunshot pierced through the sound of traffic. My bag flew out of my hand and landed a few feet in front of me. Screams erupted in the air.

I gawked at the shopping bag before looking at the shooter. It was the larger man from the subway, and he cocked the gun, aiming it at me. I could only hold my arms up in a "what-the-fuck" motion.

"That was fifteen-grand!" I shouted. I saw his fingers press down on the trigger and I ducked to the ground just as another shot was emptied. Great, they were shooting in Times Square. The police stationed here were going to fire back in five, four, three, two—

"Drop your weapons!" a deep voice shouted above the panic around us. The command was echoed by multiple officers swiftly converging on the scene. Someone grabbed my shoulders and pulled me behind the flanks of uniformed people.

"I repeat, drop your weapons!" one of the officers demanded again. I scrambled to my feet and met eye contact with the lanky man from over the shoulder of the female officer in front of me. While a stampede out of Times Square took place around us, it was like the police and my pursuers were frozen in time. Someone kept demanding the group to drop their guns. The group persisted in keeping their weapons raised.

Then, the lanky man made a small motion against the front of his chest with his fingers. It was the Cimerian Sign Language motion for 'death.'

Time to go.

Everything fell apart right as I turned on my heels and sprinted away. Deafening shots echoed around the now almost empty square. A lot of my old assailants often displayed that hand motion right before engaging in a shoot-out with the authorities. I knocked over a chair as I jumped over it, already halfway through the plaza.

Why were they in New York? Why did it seem like they were waiting for me?

Within seconds, the entrance of the hotel loomed ahead just down the street and I picked up my pace. On my way out of Times Square, dozens of squad cars roared past me with ear-piercing sirens all wailing asynchronously. Multiple ambulances followed closely.

Outside the hotel doors, I paused to look at the scene unfolding behind me. There were already barricades being set up in the form of metal railings and rolls of yellow "CAUTION" tape. Broadcasting vans halted close to where I was. Reporters with their camera crew poured out and ran up to the barricades. Other reporters were running up to those still lingering outside and holding microphones up to their faces. One particular reporter set his eyes on me and beelined in my direction. That was my cue to head in.

Inside the hotel lobby, dozens of people huddled around one another. There wasn't a beat of silence available anywhere. Conversations were a decibel louder than they should be, causing groups to continually raise their voices to be heard by the people around them. Panicked parents were arguing at the front desks with receptionists, while their children ran around behind them in a reckless game of "tag."

I ducked into the first empty elevator I saw, riding it up until the twenty-fifth floor. It was tranquil in the hallways, save for a few couples hurrying away with their luggage bumping into their heels behind them. At the end of the hall, I took out my key card and swiped it.

The room was empty. I turned on all the lights and then sat down on the edge of one of the full-sized beds to turn on the TV. The shooting was all that national and local news were broadcasting. No clear details were provided. The news could only give the haziest of summaries. The only update for myself was learning that there were no officer casualties, but three of my pursuers had been killed. The city was on a lockdown as officials urged citizens to stay inside. The entirety of Times Square had been sanctioned off and there was an announcement that all subway stops to this part of the city would be bypassed. 

After a while, the cycle of news became repetitive, so I turned off the TV. I still had no calls or texts from my cousin. That was odd. Elijah was the type of guy to keep his news notifications on his phone on. He should've already seen this. He should've called to make sure I was okay. Or maybe he was just getting way too into that barista convention.

It was about an hour later when the lock on the door beeped and flung open. Elijah staggered in, looking just as sweaty as I had, and he slammed the door shut.

"We're so fucked," he panted.

He took the remote and turned the TV back on, displaying one of the local New York news channels. An older man with buzzed brown hair was standing in front of the barricades surrounding Times Square.

"So far, the police have not provided a statement on who these shooters were or what their motivations were. Eyewitnesses claim that they were chasing a young girl through the subways and she escaped them at Times Square. One of the shooters was reported to have made a death symbol in the Cimerian Sign Language with his fingers just before firing. The New York Police Department has requested that anyone having information on what this attack may have been come forward—"

Elijah then changed the channel to an international media stream, where a woman with perfectly curled black hair sat in front of a digitized screen and stared intently at the camera. As she spoke, Elijah stuffed all of his scattered clothes on the bed back into his gray duffel bag.

"Earlier, an anonymous hacker leaked subway security tapes to the press, showing the individual that the shooters seemingly targeted prior to entering Times Square."

Next to her face, the graphics changed to display the very footage she was talking about. There I was being slowly sandwiched between two men. As I turned my head, the footage stopped and zoomed into my face. Then, a side-by-side comparison was generated to display a photo of fourteen-year-old me.

Shit.

"With the release of this footage, many individuals have noticed a striking resemblance to Park Sparrow, the Princess of Cimeria. Years ago, the young royal disappeared from the political and social scene in Cimeria. Since then, the royal family has refused to comment on her whereabouts. While this resemblance may be coincidental, it is noted that one of the shooters today signaled in Cimerian Sign Language prior to his death, an action often taken by the royal family's assailants over the past decade. Officials have urged anyone with information to come forward or call the anonymous hotline."

Elijah came back from the bathroom just then, gripping all the bottles of lotion, shampoo, and conditioner. "We have to go," he said, zipping up the duffel bag after dumping all of the commodities inside. "If we get back home safe, we won't be in as much trouble with—"

Right then, Elijah's phone rang through the pockets of his slim jeans. The two of us exchanged looks. His face had gone white and he let the phone ring on for another few seconds.

Finally, he let out a heavy sigh and fished the phone out. With a trembling hand, he answered the call on its final ring.

"Yes, Your Majesty?" 

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bitch i'm back -- by very unpopular demand

there must be a lot of questions from those who didn't catch my notification but I'll be rereleasing chapters of IPY that have been heavily edited and changed. originally i was going to wait until i had all chapters rewritten and then attempt to head down a publishing road but it's been a few years and a lot of my life has changed. i realized i missed uploading stuff on wattpad and hearing back from people about my writing. it was just really nice to have people interact with an idea that i wrote, and like i've said multiple times, there were people here who always encouraged me to keep writing and i didn't want to let them down. 

some of you may not like it, some of you may. please let me know what you think of in the comments! i also will be publishing this on radish so if any of you have an account on that platform, please check out the link in my message board and give me some support there too!

as always, ciao for now -- knee