Conundrum

Chapter 4: Legends Are Made

    "Following the robbery, Sharpshooter arrived at the scene. By noon he had apprehended the culprits. Police say the motive behind the attack is unknown—"

      The television silenced with a click and the sound of ice clinking against glass filled the room as Lance knocked back his remaining whiskey. He scowled and draped his leg over the other.

What dreadful weather.

      Lance smirked as he realized that most people would expect the view of a dark and cloudy sky with howling wind that ripped at their clothes and rain coming down in sheets. Not his dreadful weather. His definition was the stark contrast; a bright sunny day without a cloud in sight, accompanied with a dreadful sunburn and thousands of crowded, sweaty, people. He shuddered just thinking about it.

      So, when the blinds were slowly drawn up the windows by an automatic timer that afternoon while his alarm blared in his ear, it was safe to say he was annoyed when the sun's rays landed in his eyes. The annoyance weakened slightly when he sat up, hair tousled in every direction, and soaked in the amazing view of Altea through his floor to ceiling windows. Miniature replicas of famous buildings, enormous fountains dancing to the music in front of massive, elegant hotels, and thousands of people milling about; either on foot or in cars.

Lance could never tire of it.

      And with that love of this city, came the need of protecting it and the people. Which coincidently led him to his current problem. Waking up sleepy and sore and littered with bruises and cuts he knew were going to scar. Rest in peace flawless skin.

      Speaking of flawless skin . . . damn -- if that man was able to wash his filthier than sin face, Lance bet his skin would've been smoother and fairer than any other he had ever seen. With his adrenaline spiked body, he was able to take in almost every detail of that man in the span of a few seconds. Like the way his midnight black hair curled around his ears and shoulders, or how he subconsciously tapped his thumb and index finger together. But those eyes drew him in the most. How anyone could acquire that shade - let alone the color - of lilac purple was beyond him. Lance could've gotten lost in their depth if it weren't for the blatant disregard and edge of survival shining in his eyes like a flame.

Oh, and that man just had the nerve -- "Lance McClain!"

      He nearly jumped out of his skin when the bang of his door being kicked open filled the silent room and scrambled to snatch his glass before it shattered against the -- very expensive -- carpet. The voice paid him no mind as it continued, "I swear to all things holy if you don't get your ass over here and help me!"

"To the stars, Pidge!" Lance hissed while scoping up a few pieces of ice that had fallen during his scuffle.

"Come. Help. Me."

      For someone so small, she carried herself with the confidence and regality of a movie star. Every step she took was with purpose, and she was able to look down her nose at anyone who annoyed her. Pidge was able to read the most stoic of people like a book; there was no strength or weakness she couldn't pick out. So, the growl she sent Lance was enough for him to break into a cold sweat, set the ice on the coffee table, and rush over with his arms outstretched, ready to take the enormous box form her hands.

      Never mess with a woman, Lance learned that during his rebellious teenage years; when the underside of a chancla became a serious concern for him and threat from his mother. Except at that moment, it wasn't going to be a chancla thrown at him at the speed of light, but the blast of Pidge's latest invention if he didn't help her out with that box. A box twice her size no less. Lance eased the object from her hands and grunted as he nearly dropped it.