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The sun set over three hours ago, yet Beau continued to patrol the streets. Esme tagged along, naturally, curious about her brother's new placement in the army. He'd received a promotion at the worst of times, going from a paper-pushing position to a position out in the field. And, of course, he loved the action; he lost himself in the power trip -- Esme had assumed he would -- and he'd been shot several times. At one point, he'd almost lost his whole left hand to a creature contained within the mausoleum walls. The whole family spent hours in the hospital waiting room, hoping and praying he would recover, that the doctors could fix the hand, that gangrene wouldn't set in. And Beau had recovered. He seemed invincible. Esme sat on the grass opposite the mausoleum, watching her older brother and his partner, Browning, play a hand of poker.

“You sure you don't want in, beautiful? I can teach you a thing or two,” Browning flirted. Beau motioned to the gun at his own side, as if silently threatening the former American. Esme let out a laugh, her voice like a bell, and shook her head. He must have asked her a thousand times. He'd been flirting with her for weeks. He was four years her senior, with a good military background, and she liked him too, a great deal, in fact. Sometimes they met for coffee; sometimes they met just to talk. Beau had no idea.

“I'll pass, unless you want my brother to shoot you. In which case, deal me in.” She had a sense of humor too, one she liked to use whenever she could. Browning winked at her and she smiled back at him. As usual, Beau missed the whole exchange. “How much longer do you stay at this location?” Esme stretched her legs out before herself, her feet nothing but pins and needles. She’d been sitting for far too long, but, before that, she’d been standing for far too long. They’d been stationed outside of the mausoleum for almost six hours, much longer than usual, and the chill in the air had already penetrated Esme’s off-white jacket and made its way right down to her bones.

“I told you not to come,” Beau frowned, having won the hand. Browning tossed his cards onto the pile Beau had made, and then Beau collected the cards, wrapped a rubber band around them, and tossed them back to Browning for safe keeping. “Every time we’re out here, you ***** about the cold. Dress for the weather or stay home, baby sister.” Esme frowned at him, irritation written all over her face, but she kept her mouth shut. Beau didn’t have to invite her along, and he had a pretty explosive temper. They’d had a few arguments over her tagging along, and Browning had stepped in once. The whole thing had been too much for Esme to handle and she’d skipped tagging along at least twice, just because she’d been too disgusted by her brother’s insinuations that she only went to flirt with his fellow soldiers.

“I think you look nice,” Browning said, adding in a whistle.

“I bet you do,” Beau muttered, scowling at his partner. Even Browning seemed surprised at Beau’s words. Esme flushed in embarrassment, her pale cheeks taking on a rosy hue.

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Esme couldn’t contain herself anymore. She tapped her worn boot on the grass, waiting for him to answer her, but he just scoffed, as if saying that she knew the answer. “That’s what I thought, jerk,” Esme declared. “He’s just trying to make me feel better, since I complain too much and dress inappropriately for the weather. Why do you always make me seem like some kind of slut? Why can’t you just be more like Orson?” Esme knew she’d gone too far when Beau tensed, his shoulders rigid.

Their father had a terrible habit of comparing Beau to Orson. Orson had gone on to take in a six-figure paycheck; he kept most of the bills paid at the bookstore. He’d taken up a good job for a good law firm. Their father saw him as the better son, the one to pick up where their father had left off, to take the right road rather than following the left road. Beau hated being compared to Orson, and Esme had just let the words slip right off her tongue. She had a moment where she could have apologized, but she let the moment pass. Browning tried to step forward and interfere, but Beau rounded on his sister and marched right up to her.

“Don’t you ever ******* compare me to him, got it?” He pointed at her, his finger shaking to show his contained rage. Silent, Esme quickly nodded.

“Hey, man. Back up. Get out of her face.” Browning reached out, clapped a hand on Beau’s shoulder, and pulled the man back. At that time, the doors to the mausoleum blew open and the military fence around the perimeter of the building quivered. Both Browning and Beau took off running, while Esme stood still, rooted to the spot. Nothing had ever happened before. Nothing was supposed to happen.