The very beginning of the story. If you like it, let me now. And please, no flares.

ONE

When You Find Yourself Falling Out Of Place…

It was a hot and light morning in Culiacan, a small city in Mexico. But, that wasn't a strange thing. Strange was the fact that streets looked strangely abandoned, if you didn't look at few cats that examined the trash. Omaha Letters walked down the street with her nose burried deep into the pages of book she read since waking up. Dark green eyes moved franatically through words that made her shiver inside. Long legs in leather sandals carried her forward, without any help from her mind. She walked down this same street thousands of times, so there wasn't really a need for her to look up and check if something new have raised on the street. She knew she should look up; it seamed that whole city was under construction, it has a lot to do with lastyear's massacre that took place in the city, which then made the president to reach deep into his own pocket to make things right. Omaha wasn't in the city on that day, she was at her parents in the capital city, and she had never been so thankful that she took the trip and went to see them.

Omaha didn't look up when she should have. The book was just too intense, the hero was too irresisitible and his damsel in distress was like a copy of herself.

Omaha didn't look up, and she ran into a road barricade in full speed, fell over it as her dark hair flied around her head like a flag. She screamed when her forhead collided with asphalt, and when the book fall from her hands. Darkness filled her vision, followed with white spots of brilliance that bursted in front of her eyes, and then she lost conscience. The last coherent thought that flashed through her mind was: I've lost my book. Just great.

Sheldon Sands heard a sharp scream, followed with a loud bump and commotion. And then only rustling of pages in the wind. He stopped dead in his tracks, not sure waht to do. It happened a lot these days. Correction, it happened a lot ever since the Day of the Dead, since Collaboration of Doom, Festival of Pain. Since one afternoon in November when his fucking eyes were ripped out from his skull, and when he was shot a few times afterwards. It took him about five months to gather himself again, to decide what to do with his patetic life, and it was finally alright. Well, not alright, but it was bearable. Or atleast that was the thing he repeated to himself. The thing he continued to lie to himself.

''Okay'', he muttered and turned toward the rustling, that was apparently coming from the book that fell from women's arms when she fell. Sands leaned down and picked up the book, without feeling for it, which would be behavior you'd expect from a blind man. How much concentration that called for, was some other deal. To say the truth, other than lackness of his eyes, Sands just showed no sign that would made you realize he's blind. And there was no way you'd ever come close enough to see what's behind the sunglasses that rested on his nose all the time.

The book ended up in the rear pocket of his black trousers; every single piece of Sands' clothes was black, he couldn't afford to come out in wrongly paired clothes. His whole life came to only one important thing: DON'...YOU'.SIGHTLESS. Black clothes and dark sunglasses became his only protection against the dangerous world, if you ignore loaded Beretta in his weapon holster.

Sands took a deep breath, going from the fact that it was a woman's scream and that women usually smelled on something… well fragranted. Soon he smelled light flower scent, mixed with something unknown but strangely familiar. General impression was very positive, so Sands stepped closer, cautiously but firmly; he couldn't let some unsuspected passer think he can't see where he's going. He knelt on one knee and reached for whichever part of woman's body he'd find first.

Well? What do you think?