Ripper kept his head down.

That was probably the best wording for it. He followed rules, avoided crowds, and made sure not to stray into the center of attention. If something was going on, well, it had nothing to do with him. Nothing ventured, nothing gained--nor lost. He was your model prisoner. Didn't make trouble and didn't stick his nose where it didn't belong.

Which was why, when some of the other inmates banded together and blasted holes all over the compound, not a single guard thought to keep an eye on him.

And that in turn was why he now ran unhindered through a field of forget-me-nots while smoke rose in thick, winding columns toward the endless night sky.

How long he'd been running--he'd lost track by now. He clutched a burlap sack against his chest with both arms. Inside that sack were what precious few possessions he had left. His father's hook, and his eyepatch. A pair of real pearl earrings that had belonged to his aunt. A bare handful of gold shillings and a message in a bottle.

His feet bled. His legs ached. His lungs felt like they might collapse any moment.

He kept running.

The forget-me-nots became waist-high grasses. No--wheat? Wheat, it was wheat. The stalks rustled against his legs. He slowed now, stopped, and felt carefully with one foot for the aisle between rows. He found and followed it, and when he found it was dependably straight, began to jog, and then to run again.

Doubtlessly they knew he was gone by now. How long before the first search parties set out? An hour, maybe two? Or were they already out? Would they bring hounds to sniff him out, guns to quell any escape?

His body screamed. Darkness lurked in the edges of his vision--not of the night, but of exhaustion. The only sounds he heard with any reliability were his breaths and his heart, thump thump thumping behind his ribs.

One more step. One more step.

Just one more.

Somewhere, however far, the ocean still called to him. Had called to him for seven years. Even if it killed him, even if it was the last thing he ever did, he would see her again. He would stand on the sand in her surf and mourn for the people who should've stood with him.

And then--if he didn't die--he'd pick himself up and carry on their legacy.

One more step.

Black clotted over his eyes and the world winked out.