Redsand Canyon but the room is so quiet

If Renard found endless possibility within the Saints’ careening trajectory, quite the opposite was true for Finley. She had a purpose to fulfill, vaguely-outlined as it was, and the Saints’ offerings were bathed in mindless bloodshed and tumbleweed affections. A spectacle indeed—and Finley had never been inclined towards empty show.

The irony, then, of making a performance of her own through her behavior, then and now, was not lost on her. It mattered little, here and now, how smart her decision was in “truth;” sense was to be carved in retrospect, once the remains were thoroughly cleaned. But for now the pieces were strewn in an impulsive haphazard; instinct forged ahead without wasting breath for explanation.

“Thought you might have the guts to take this from him.” What followed was of less concern. Everyone could stand to be proven wrong in these canyons. Finley bit her tongue just long enough to let Renard continue, with a prod she would have scrambled to answer if she cared to try, but as the first matter of business: “There’s nothing to take.” Another dart of the eyes back, wondering if he’d caught the scoff in her tone; but Renard followed from behind, out of sight.

Nothing worth taking, to be precise; alas, the time for such specifics had passed. Already Renard’s final question threatened to muddle her head and, or bring it all to the surface or what have you it didn’t matter her mind was made—even if Finley wanted to turn back now, Renard would have her throat. But really, what did the Saints have to offer? Hollow, gaping promises; Donovan himself, apparently. The latter appeal was lost on Finley now as it had been from the start. His antics meant little.

Fine, she’d entertain him. “The nonsense.” Neither; both. “Entertain me: what hooked you?” A final bet, hedged on the limp semblance of fairness; she barely had the right to ask and expected no answer. “Surely not the fawning.” Renard had to be smarter than that.