This isn’t who she is. This is ridiculous, hiding in her apartment as an armed student roamed the campus somewhere and university and county police desperately searched for him. Mathilda could feel the itch to climb on the roof and at least survey the ground. The CIA had never given her any training, and certainly no weapons, but it still feels wrong to sit as a passive civilian when she could gain a strategic advantage. She’s quit the CIA, she reminds herself. She’s in grad school to stop hiding, to become a real civilian with a real job and real friends.

But still. She stared at her window, blinds tightly drawn. She couldn’t just hide. This apartment complex had over a thousand residents. Her unit was by the road, with tree cover. She could watch and no one would know. But she’s a civilian. She has no weapons. What would she even do if she saw the suspects?

She was moving before she even realized. Calmly walking up the stairs and throwing her coffee thermos through the access panel before swinging up after it, hunting knife strapped to her thigh, cell phone in her pocket. She’s just going to hang out on the high ground. It’s safer for a civilian than the ground floor anyway. And if she sees anything interesting, she’ll call the police and maybe give them a flat tire to slow them down. No problem.

She thinks about the boxes downstairs she could be unpacking. She thinks about the job she left behind. She finishes her coffee, and debates going down for a refill. There’s do little chance they’d come all the way up here, this residence block is two miles away from main campus. She paces the perimeter of the roof, just to stretch her legs before heading back down, when a red pickup pulls in.

She drops to her stomach and sticks her head over the corner to watch the truck as it turns to park.

It’s small, with Virginia plates. It matches the description of the BOLO from county police. There’s three boys inside. She shifts back behind the short wall, and checks her texts.

She pauses for a moment. It matches the description, but she can’t check the license plate. The police are looking for a lone gunman, not a group. Who is she to be on the lookout?

The men climb out of the truck. One is wearing a university hoody and jeans, exactly like the description, but then - doesn’t everyone?

She hesitates again, and they head towards an apartment.

She calls 911. She gives them the description of the truck and the boys. She feels like a failure when she can’t confirm the license plate, or even provide an apartment number or confirmation if they’re armed.

The police and a SWAT team rolled up less than five minutes later. Mathilda didn’t move from her perch on the roof, although she was definitely no longer needed. Maybe she just wanted to see this thing to the end.

A squadron of unmarked cars pulled up behind the police vehicles. It seemed like overkill to Mathilda - there was only the door and two windows for egress, and they were all on this side of the building.

Mathilda spent ten boring minutes wondering what would happen next. Finally completely losing interest now that the problem had been solved, the coffee issue became more pressing.

She dropped her thermos to the balcony, not caring that it made a loud clang. She proceeded to jump down after it, gracelessly landing with her hands braces on the dirty floor. As she rose to brush off her hands, she glanced back to the “action,” noting two of the boys being led out of the apartment, and made eye contact with one of the detectives standing idly by an unmarked car. She shrugged and returned, thermos in hand, to her apartment.

Not two minutes later, there was a knock on her door.

The police detective was actually with the FBI, and he had some questions.

Mathilda took one look around her chaotic apartment and offered to pour him a coffee, but they had to chat outside.

——-

She kept staring at her phone, remembering the days it would ring non-stop. The very recent days when she was important. Not so long ago really- but she had to keep reminding herself, as she stared at her mostly empty flat with only two boxes to unpack, that she had chosen this. This wasn’t going to be a mistake. She’d spent years planning.

She wasn’t throwing away thousands of dollars to go back to school. No. This was an investment. And she needed the change. she had traded a warm townhouse and friends and neighbors and a rewarding job where she was valued and her boss needed her for grad school. Sure, she was lonelier than ever, her flat was cold and unwelcoming, and the thought of trying to make new friends amongst the students that looked like they were 18 and here to relive their teenage house party glory made her nauseous, that didn’t matter. She was tired of settling in life, and this degree would help her start over, and finally make herself “true” self into someone people would want to know. So what if her fiancé left her. So what if her boss fired her. So what if she quit the CIA. This was a new start, and it was going to be great. She had decided. And if Matilda had decided, then obviously it would eventually just manifest into being.