[FFML] [Orig] They Walk In Light 2

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Konichiwa, here's the long awaited second part. If you get any =
formatting problems, or if this doesnt come through as a body text =
message, please let me know. And now, part 1.2:

-- Attached file included as plaintext by Listar --
-- File: yyy.txt

My cyc had been awarded to me as part of a grand prize
I received in the early days of my shortened career. I
think I was only nineteen at the time. Twenty was the
minimum age, but Zig had gotten me fake identification a
year earlier, so I could get out of the Silver Cup and race
for real. I couldn't afford a car at the time so I had to
rent one of another driver's spares. I didn't win too
often, as I was concentrating too hard on not damaging the
exterior, not even having insurance. But through a series
of third and fourth place winnings, I finally bought my
first car, the Dogs of War. I have had four other cars
since then, each bigger and faster than the last. I drove
the Number One Gun until I was sent underground, and had to
sell the car to pay my lawyer. After I got back in the game
I wanted to try to buy her back. The Gun and I had a
special relationship; the type a man can only have with his
vehicle. I guess I have one with my motorcycle too, but
it's harder pin down.

After sitting on a park bench checking my engine and
wheels for damage, I decided the only thing to do was get
the cyc charged up, and deliver Zig's package. The sooner I
got rid of it the better.

True. But as I looked down at the shopping bag in
front of me, my stronger half decided I had better open it.
The top was sealed with duct tape, until I pulled that
off and dumped the contents onto a picnic table. There was
a heavy black box wrapped in bubble wrap, a train ticket,
and small note card with a phone number on it. There was no
name on it or anything identifying. I pulled the box out of
the bubble wrap and examined it. It was fairly heavy, and
the out side was painted sheet metal. The metal had no weld
markings on it, meaning it was probably forged around the
contents while still in its meta-liquid state. I wondered
what inside could be that expensive. I didn't see any way
to find out though, short of bashing it with a rock.

Finally I looked at the train ticket. It was a one way
pass into the Aqueduct. The departure station was not
listed. It was obviously for someone to come here from Lanz
Island. I don't know why Zig would want that, considering
his choice of profession. I put all three items back in the
bag, and sealed it up as best I could with the used tape.
Nothing so special in there, unless the metal box contained
drugs or something. But they would not weigh so much. I
could be the detonator to some bomb, or a stash of
diamonds. Whatever it was, as soon as I saw Zig again, I
was going to ask him, and not let him off with any vague
answer. I got back on my cyc, put the bag securely in my
lap, and headed out of the park.

Once I found a gas station, I hooked up the trodes and
went in to use the bathroom. I washed my face which was
covered in smoke-soot, and combed my hair again. I left
after paying, got back on the cyc, and headed out toward
the capital for the second time that morning. This time I
stayed purely on the residential roads and was at the post
office in less than half an hour.

Outside on the steps in front of the building, a small
crowd had gathered around a group of protestors waving
brightly colored signs. The post office I was going to was
on the bottom floor of a large government building. The
large plaque in front said "IMHR" but nothing else. After
parking, I walked over to the crowd, and shuffled my way to
the front. There were six of them walking in a circle
around a small table where a bunch of candles were lit. The
signs said "Down with the brain butchers!, Pseudo-learning
is Pseudo-life!" and other such slogans. A tall blonde
woman with an equally golden haired child was standing next
to me and watching the display with quiet amusement.

"What's all this?" I asked her when she noticed me.

"Oh, just more left wing extremists protesting the use
of hypno-training on ex-cons. They say it's everything from
degrading to torture." The woman leaned her head a little
closer. "But if you ask me, the criminals deserve it. If
they quit committing crimes against the state every five
minutes, they wouldn't be sent to jail and have to deal
with this."

"That's it? No kind of fraternal mercy?"

"They didn't show any of that on the people they
hurt."

I eyed her and turned around to walk away. "." I said
as I left.

The PO box was easy to find, and after a little
trouble getting the bag to fit inside, I was out of there.
I took the interstate home, and only saw one police car. It
had pulled some guy over apparently for some minor
incursion so I wasn't really worried about it. When I
finally got back to my apartment building, I went upstairs
and checked to see if my mailbox had been filled.
Disappointed, I walked in, threw my helmet on the bed and
sat on the couch. I figured I had better wait until Zig
called before leaving the room. There was an stale package
of cereal under one of the cushions, so I turned on the
screen and ate a late breakfast.

Before long I was asleep and once again thrown, almost
against my will, into dreams of the Gun, the Turbine, and
the Trophy.

| | | | | | | | | | |
I woke up to the sound of a woman's voice softly
speaking my name. I opened my eyes and saw one of the few
very familiar faces in my life, that of the nice lady who
lived next-door. I had given her the key to my apartment a
few years ago in case I locked myself out, or in the worst
case if something bad happened to me in there and she had
to take me to the hospital. But I think this was just a
friendly visit.

"Hi there." She said. I sat up on the couch, looked on
the coffee table and saw that she had brought a casserole
for me. And not any of that microwavable crap. Real nice,
like I said.

"Hello."

Incredibly in the three and a half years I had known
her, I had never learned her name. Whether I cared about it
or not, I recognized that it was an oddly characteristic
thing for me to do. She had always been the one to start
the conversations. She sat down on the couch next to me. I
figured she was a little under forty, but it didn't show.

She had light brown hair pulled up in a tie which gave her
a little bit of the `Auntie Em' look. I could truthfully
say I had never had an impure thought about her, which is
more than I can say about most of the women in my life.

"I brought you some dinner. I can see you could use
it," she said as she brushed dried cereal off the table.
I'll admit I was hungry, but because of some instinct
I had to at least attempt to refuse it. "You didn't have to
do that, I'm fine, really."

"I don't want to hear it. Eat. I'll get you a plate."

She got up and went into the kitchen. My apartment wasn't
the luxury I should have gotten for the money I was
spending, especially in terms of floor space. But I had a
master bedroom with a grand-bay window behind the hardwood
living room. There was also an adjacent den back there
which was filled with expensive things that used to fill my
three story house on the north side. When I could no longer
afford the place, I had sold most of the furniture with it
but kept the smaller items I thought of as my
`possessions.' Unfortunately crafted crystal glasses didn't
go well with my new ceramic flatware and I let it all sit
tightly wrapped in boxes. I only assumed I would some day
have use for it again.

While my neighbor searched my cabinets I heard her
cough, a habit which had grown more insistent in the past
few months. She had never smoked a cigarette in her life,
but had drank a few too many glasses of bad water during
last year's crisis. I had a deep sympathy for her and all
the others I knew who had managed to survive. But at the
same time I was thankful just that she had.

A second later she was back with silverware and two
plates. She served us both, and we ate. It was delicious,
as I knew it would be. Believe me when I say it was only
because of some irrational instinct that I ever refused
her.

We talked about whatever came to mind, mostly the
news. Police Commissioner Arkoff was all over the news
talking about his new plan to reduce crime in the city. We
watched politicians wrestle the debate over the IMHR's
treatment of prisoners, and their plan to convert all
convicts into sanctioned laborers for the state. The
opposition to this came in the form of a couple dozen human
rights activists bent on abolishing not only convict
decriminalizing, but all forms of pseudo learning.

A long time ago I had been given the choice to undergo
the program in return for a reduced sentence, but had
refused immediately. I was not sorry for what I had done
and attitude adjustment would just drive me insane. I had
gathered that the IMHR didn't care, because while I was
underground the program was still in its test phases, and
all they experimented on were warm bodies with
`dysfunctional' brains. Sounded like craniology to me, but
what did I know.

"But what does any ex-con know?" I finished.

"The Commissioner came on the news last night and said
if it weren't for the highest number of gang-related crimes
in the decade, hypnosis wouldn't be necessary. He wants to
keep the children out of trouble while they're young."

"Or so he says."

Silence for a minute; as she decided not to press it.

I had once heard her mention that she had run into me a few
times before I moved into my current apartment four years
ago, but she hadn't wanted to say where. It was strange but
then maybe it was my privacy she was protecting.

"Despite what they say, I don't think he comes across
as an unjust man."

"Maybe, but it's the result of a lot of hard work."

"Oh, I wish you weren't so cynical all the time," she
said. "You don't realize how much worse it could have
been."

What did that mean? I couldn't reply without sounding
rude so I just shook my head a little. At some point I
assumed she would finally open up to me, it was a matter of
the right event .

After doing the social thing for another hour or two,
she excused herself, saying she had to pick up her laundry
and hit the grocery store. I walked her back to her door,
thanked her for the food and the company, and went back to
my place. Showered, and shaved.

It was 8:30 and Zig would be calling me anytime. I was
restless, as the events of this morning weighed heavily on
my mind. If the cops had busted me for speeding, reckless,
evading arrest, and riding in a unsanctioned area it would
count as my third strike for sure, and I would be executed.
The reason for all this was the three harpies from hell who
would not take no for an answer. I had already taken care
of a little over 65 percent of them, and the girl who
jumped out didn't look like she had her heart in it from
the beginning.

It was dark out and Zig still hadn't called. If he
thought this was the way to thank me for mail delivery
above and beyond the call of duty, he was wrong. I took a
seat on the couch again and watched the screen. Something
about the conclusion to new studies on what made the
Turbine turn. I could tell them the answer to that. It
turns by the power of the miles and miles of the city's
underground machinery that no one knows how to control
anymore. During the fabled Technicization Age when the city
was originally built, the city's ground level was laid on
top of machinery miles deep underground. It was currently
thought that the Turbine may even be the first perpetual
machine, but it was uncertain because the immense size and
variable speed of the five spoked wheel made it almost
impossible to tell if it was losing energy. If it ever did,
I'd be out of a job, so I hoped the engineers involved
didn't screw everything up for us. The Turbine powered the
whole city, so why interfere with it, right?

I started to doze again when the phone finally rang. I
woke with a start, punched the button, and yelled "For
God's sake! Where the hell have you been?"

But it wasn't Zig's low, African-tinged voice that
answered "Right here."

The voice was a man's, and from the sound of it he was
older with a slight European accent. "Who is this?" I said.

"Sorry, that would ruin it. I'm a big fan of yours."

"You mean when I was a racer?" I said, but I did not
think that this was what he meant.

"Not exactly. Say, I saw your little joyride this
morning. Very neat. I don't think the police are on to you
yet, though. There are a lot of red motorcycles in this
city. And it's a good thing, you don't want to miss the big
race on Sunday."

"What race?"

"The Gold Cup."

"What do you know about it?"

"Even more than I need to."

A second passed.

"Listen, I don't have time for this shit. Keep in mind
what happened to the last pair of fans who tried to out-
fuck me."

"Yes, that was bad luck for them. But just remember it
was me who called you."

Then he hung up.

I sat down again and thought. Anyone could have looked
up my number on their phone, but I still didn't like what I
think the guy had been getting at. Who needed this?
Nonetheless Zig hadn't called, and it was starting to
look like I would have to drop by. He was only fifteen
minutes east of here, so I turned off the screen and
grabbed my jacket. It was my old racing issue; Red, white,
and synthetic. I had added an armpit holster a year ago,
and as I put it on, I grabbed my iron out of the sock
drawer. Zig did not live in a much worse part of the city
than I did, but that was not saying much.

I left the room and went downstairs to the lot. Riding
over to Zig's place took longer than I expected because I
had to dodge a pair of patrol cars which had erected their
own road block. For a second it even occurred to me that I
was who they were checking for, but that wasn't possible
yet. Probably just a few bad officers collecting tolls from
unwise civilians.

When I finally arrived, I climbed the stairs to Zig's
floor and knocked on the door. Nothing. Zig had mentioned
to me before that he secretly wanted to leave the `ghetto,'
even the whole south side, and get a place closer to the
Plaza that wasn't property or rent controlled. It wasn't
that he couldn't afford it, as his polished solid oak door
asserted, but his choice of employment wouldn't allow a
residence any further from the action. It was a business
decision, he said. So he made do with a Junior Penthouse
suite and catalog-quality furnishings.

After a minute I knocked again, this time louder. Then
I heard a definite crash inside, and some very faint
laughter. I tried the knob, it was locked. I pressed four-
two-one, cracked the door and looked in. Smoke wafted out,
and made me sneeze. All the ceiling panels were dark except
for a black lamp which was always plugged in. I opened my
jacket and put my hand on my gun as I felt along the wall
for the switch. When I found it I flipped it on, and found
myself not alone in the room.

There were a dozen people sitting in a light fog,
looking at me with drooping eyes and grins. The room was
large, larger than mine, and had black leather couches
along three of the walls. The walls themselves were
gradually turning gray, either from paint or stain, and
held canvas art pieces tacked up without frames. Zig was
sitting in the midst lighting a honeycombed candle.

He looked up, saw me and exclaimed "Screw! I didn't
think you'd drop by until later. Sit down, there's a spot
over there. And turn the damn light off for god's sake."

Hitting the switch again, I stepped forward over piles
of clothing and litter which spread out in a radial pattern
from the room's center of attention; a marble ashtray
containing a slowly burning lump of purple sterno. The
alcoholic smell was not the only one which attested to the
liberalism of our senses. Smoke, perfume, sweat, and sharp
indigo black lighting tranquilly vied for recognition.
Here, even your skin was at home.

I threw the jacket into an empty corner and took a
seat.

A young shabbily dressed kid to my right passed me a
beer and a Phillie packed almost to bursting. I looked at
it. I was feeling very different than I had in a long time.
Maybe it was the idea omnipresent in my mind that I had
escaped death today a lot more by luck then skill. You
would think that would almost make one paranoid but instead
I felt nothing. Less feeling even, than I had about my
health before today.

Zig handed me the candle he had lit, and I took a deep
drag. When I finally died, would I wish I had gotten it all
over with sooner? I had never been taught religion in my
turbulent childhood, so you might say the opposing
influence was absent in this matter. The conclusion was
that I damn well might.

Someone turned on music (electric reggae,) and the
level of conversation in the room forgot about my entrance.

The next few hours were lost in history. A variety of
things were contributing to this. For now, I didn't care. I
saw lights, colors, and Zig get slapped by some girl whose
behind he had grabbed. Melody swirled in my head, making
things less clear and harder to grasp onto. It seemed I
tried for an hour to figure out if there were more people
partying outside the window, or if it was just our
reflection. I never came up with an answer. The alcohol was
also making its presence known.

It was after midnight I guessed when Zig sat down next
to me, and seemed to speak very clearly, in that I was able
to understand him at all. "Screw!"

"Zigwell."

He chuckled. "Listen to this, I got it a second ago
from that string laid out on the couch. Why does Kate Moss
drink so much milk?"

Zig was a late twenties black man of medium height,
and had a scruffy, irregular patch of hair on his chin that
constantly changed length and shape. Work in the last six
years had kept him in some kind of good physical and mental
condition. He dressed in worn expensive clothing, and had
shoulder length dreadlocks even though he professed to hate
Rastafarians. Always comfortable enough to speak first,
respect could only hurt his act. He wanted to be taken just
lightly enough that no one considered him a competitor.
'Free at Last?', as was written in thick stain on the dark
cast-iron coffee table.

"I give up."

"She found out her tapeworm has osteoporosis."

He laughed out loud and I tried to. Maybe too obviously.

"Are you alright?"

"I'm just tired."

"You don't look `just' tired."

"Maybe not. I was feeling a little sick in the stomach
yesterday and the day before. There's a knot down there
that aint letting go."

"It's not guilt is it?"

I grinned. "I doubt it."

"Maybe you got worms, like the ones that killed your
dog."

"I think it's more like a feeling that something is
going on around me and there's nothing I can do. People get
it all the time."

"Well I hardly ever hear it out of you."

"Or maybe I really am just tired. It was too long of a
day."

"Tell me about it. I've been all over the aqueduct
since dawn."

"Doing what?"

"Playin Mr. Santa Claus. You remember Magic Mike from
Queens?"

"The loan shark?"

"Nah, he's a dock worker now. Got busted for something
stupid around a year ago and now he's the one trying to
keep his legs from getting broken. Anyway, he jacked a
couple of crates off someone else's barge a few days ago
and I said I'd take a look at them-see if he could pay me
what he owes in merchandise."

"Anything good?"

"If you like old sports memorabilia crap. Footballs
and team jerseys signed by mediocre over the hill athletes.
Not worth any real cash, but I think Magic Mike is taking
what he can get. I know a few places north of here that
sell that shit on commercials and out of catalogues so I
could probably get a few grand for the pile." Zig shrugged.

"I got nothing personal against the guy."

"So then what was all the rush this morning?" I asked.

"Well, he calls me even earlier, woke my ass up no
less and says he caught three hood-rats hanging around the
empty warehouse where he had stashed the crates at three in
the morning. He thought the union might have hired them to
find the crates and take care of whoever stole them. So I
said I'd be down there right away to take it all back in my
car before anyone figured him out.

"But it turns out they weren't there for his hoard. I
showed up at five and Major Mike was hiding under a table
in his office with a pair of binoculars. He pointed out his
window to about twenty-five armed gang boys yanking tarp-
covered palettes out of the same warehouse. Huge fuckers
which obviously weren't full of footballs. The place was
infested."

"What did you do?"

"Are you nuts? Not a damn thing. We watched them for a
while and then spent the rest of the morning in his office
with the blinds drawn so they wouldn't know anyone had
seen. Took forever."

"What about the footballs?"

Zig paused. "You know, we forgot all about them. We
got the hell out as soon as we could. They're probably
still in warehouse seventeen."

I couldn't blame him for that. Nobody wanted to get
shot over someone else's job. Especially if it involved
gangsters. Zig took a drag of his cigar. "Did you deliver
that package for me?"

My expression changed. "That's the question of the
hour. I was going to drop it off after the appointment with
my P.O. when two guys in a muscle car started following me.
It actually turned into more of a chase when I tried to
lose them in a mall. Luckily the cops were way behind, and
I finally ditched them all in a subway station. I think a
train hit their car. Didn't you hear about any of this on
the news?"

"Apparently not!" His look became suddenly worried.

"I almost died, but I put your little shopping bag in
the box. Quite an ordeal."

"Well, I'm thankful. I owe you a big one."

I paused. "Of course, it did occur to me that the bag
was the whole reason I was chased. Now what was in there?
Maybe a little G,D, and R?" Guns, Drugs, and Recreational-
use disposable best friends; and for the record, I'd like
to see which one you think does the most harm. Zig didn't
respond.

"Come on. Did you steal someone's TV remote? Car keys?
.Toaster Waffles?" Hands turned up, which translates
roughly as w.t.f.n?

"Please. Screw you don't have to-"

"And you better be fucking honest about it. Know what
I mean? Not that you wouldn't be, but well, I want to
know." In case that wasn't it, I thought, visualizing
"Jesus, Screw! I'll tell you, relax! What crawled up
your ass and died?"

"Something."

"Damn it, you're putting me on. There was just a few
stock certificates and a wad of bills in there. The stiffs
who followed you must have been after something else."

"Like what? The pot of gold I keep in my other pants?!
I haven't had anyone try to rob me in years. If that's what
it was."

"Hey, shit happens. I usually take the attempt as a
compliment."

"Thanks, Zig. That helps a lot."

"But I'm glad you came through despite adversity.
Hey.Here. Take this for your troubles."

"I don't want it."

"Take it! And quit worrying about yourself. "

I sighed. "That's the whole idea."

Zig left me with a small nugget of green. (Or was it
yellow?) I folded up the paper and put it in my pocket. I
was getting a little angry. Zig sure as hell didn't play
the stocks, and I knew he was lying. He hadn't mentioned
the plane ticket or the phone number, so I guess he didn't
think I knew what was in the shopping bag. Or hoped I
didn't know. I couldn't figure out any more in my state, so
I laid back and shrugged.

Probably coming from some room down the hall, the
thump-thump of a large bass could be heard under Marley's
ever-mellow guitar in the speakers across the room. It was
all but inaudible, and I think the only way I noticed it
was that the beats were just a fraction of a second out of
sync. Odd that I picked up on that first.

After a second, and a deep troubled breath, I felt
body heat and turned to notice a girl sitting next to me.
She said her name was Alethea and that she was
nineteen. I asked her what she was doing hanging out with
people like these at such a young age, and she said that
Zig said he had met me while I was only eighteen. Seemed
right.

I asked her where her parents were and she replied,
"Well where are yours?"

It was a fair question. "Serving the Public,
supposedly."

"Your mother too?"

"No. She died years ago."

"I'm really sorry," and she reflects concern.

"So was I."

Believe me, it wasn't the worst story I could have
told within my fifteen minutes of meeting someone. I had
always been told it was a common story. After my mother had
been killed during `police activity,' my father informed me
he was leaving to join the enemy. He had lied
consequentially, though I still received checks every month
until I was a legal adult.

I told her how Zig and I had met while trying out for
a crew position on a smaller racing team. I made it, he
didn't. But the winner bought all the losers drinks and it
turned out amiably.

"So you're older than he is?"

"By a few years. Even though I don't look it."

"Of course not," she said and smiled.

I reached out without thinking and touched her
shoulder. Dim firelight was shining off of it so faintly it
looked perfectly smooth. Like the laser-cut imitation
porcelain on an expensive oriental doll. She pretended not
to notice me feel it for half a second. I weighed my
alternatives and then spoke.

"You still didn't tell me about your parents."

"Please, what's the point. They're out of my life
permanently."

"Are you sure?"

Alethea shrugged blandly. "No."

"At least you're honest. Assuming it was their fault."

"It was. Mostly."

I waited. She took a sip from a bottle of wine. "Is
that all I get?" I asked.

"It was the only important part. You don't want to
hear the rest, it's just unpleasant anyway."

"Maybe it isn't."

"Trust me, it is."

"Is it so hard to admit?"

"No!"

"Then just give me the gist. I won't tell anybody."

"I'm not worried about that," she said, uneasily.

"What then?"

"I don't want you to get the wrong idea right away. It
wasn't as if I was another lonely little girl feeling
unloved or anything."

"Did you?"

"Who knows. No one pays attention to their teenage
years. Least of all me."

"So the parents were both there, then?"

"Alive and kicking at least."

"And you had the ridiculous thought that there must be
more to life?"

She nodded. "I guess I thought everyone would have
encouraged that."

"So you learned the hard way. Happens to the best of
us. But you didn't let it alone after that, did you?"

Alethea turned her eyes away and exhaled. "Aren't you
full of questions."

"I just want to know what I'm dealing with," I said,
and then relaxed a little.

She got up from her seat on the floor, and leaned on
my arm on the couch.

"Are you that interested?"

"Very interested."

There was more shifting around in her seat but not
from inattention. The sound in the room had dropped but
still covered her voice next to my ear. She had started to
look like she was at a loss for words and hadn't actually
expected me to press the question. But the hint of a smile
crept in. "Believe it or not, it wasn't my fault. I had
been raised more in my father's office much more than in
his home. Like all the rest of them, he wanted me to grow
up exactly the way he had wanted to himself and for a while
I really did not resist. I liked the attention and he was
quick to praise.

"I also had a friend at school named Karen who
eventually showed me what a wasted childhood I was leading.
She said I was always working at the times I should have
been playing. After all, your time is just as important now
as it is in the future."

"So what was her answer to the question?"

"Develop a social life I could be happy with. Talk to
people and do things I wouldn't have, regardless of any
parochial consequences. It made sense to me, so I followed
her lead. And though I couldn't explain how, it felt
right."

I said, "I bet it wasn't hard."

Smile. "Not really. But it started to get me into
trouble. At first, just because I wasn't home when my
father wanted me to be, but later there were actual
problems with the law. Finally they said I couldn't live
off of their money if I wouldn't accept their rules and I
left."

"Just like that?"

"Well, there was a lot of yelling and some bridges
were burnt but I more or less told them to go to hell. Felt
good too."

"And now?"

"Who knows. I don't have regrets; I couldn't live any
other way. It's just unfortunate that I was born into the
atmosphere I was."

"I know exactly what you mean."

I had to give the girl respect for putting herself on
the line like that. The south side of the city was not a
place anyone wanted to be dumped into. Or would usually
make it in. She was lucky Zig always kept an eye out for
young meat. Living in the den of iniquity was better than a
dumpster, or getting sent underground for vagrancy.
"What about you?" she asked.

"Me? I guess I'm happy with the way I live. Or the way
I've been living."

"I bet you've got an eye for trouble too."

"The other way around, I hope."

We sat there with our arms together like that until
sleep finally drifted in through the windows,
characteristically unannounced.

When I woke the next morning, a few people had left,
and Zig was having an animated discussion with the landlord
in the doorway. This meant he would probably be hitting me
up for money to pay his property damage that I didn't have.
I guessed I could give him back the drugs he gave me last
night to sell on the street. I wasn't going to take that
shit anyway. The girl, Alethea, was still asleep on my arm
and as I had nowhere to be, I didn't get up. I drifted back
to my racing dreams before long, and did not wake up again
until she did.

Zig was shaking my arm and putting something in my
hand. I looked down and saw a hot 7-11 burrito on a used
paper plate. "Eat." He said. I sniffed it, it was hot. I
took a bite and burned my tongue. I realized Alethea was
about to make the same mistake I did, so I put my finger
lightly on her lips. She saw my head shake and with a smile
picked up her bag instead. Her small black cell phone made
a few beeps and told her she had messages.

I saw in the bright sunlight that her hair was not
black but a pleasant light brown. I ran a few fingers
through it as I took my hand away from her mouth. She had
equally brown eyes and a set of perfectly strait teeth
which was actually getting more uncommon. She stood up and
went through the guest bedroom as I watched her, and liked
what I saw. She was lithe and feminine at the same time.
Her movements reminded me of someone I knew closely but I
could not place at the moment.

The guy still sleeping on the couch opposite us turned
out to be Christopher Dais, a militant ex-con I knew from
underground. Chris and I had shared a cell after a while
and I had gotten to know him well. He was not all too
friendly, and when he thought he had been wronged, he was
ruthless beyond good reason. Plus he had connections on the
outside and with him at my back, in the six years I was
down I was never molested or even bothered after the rest
of the mates knew I was with him.

Chris and I hadn't run into each other for a while now
but I would wait until he awoke on his own before talking
to him. Zig had mentioned something to me a while back
about he and Chris exchanging services recently. Chris was
buying a few thousand dollars worth of minor black market
items, and offering some sort of protection against Zig's
rivals finding out. I wanted to ask him if he had gotten
any deeper into the gang life that surrounded his current
reputation. It did not matter to me on a moral level but
was good to know. Whatever it was, it was clear he had made
some profit from his work.

Somewhere, maybe in an apartment next door, an alarm
clock buzzed faintly.

Now left alone in the room except for those sleeping,
I relaxed and looked at the ceiling. There was something to
be said for security in any of its forms, even if that
meant giving up something of yourself. Who wanted to die
healthy anyway. I smiled and felt good knowing I was alive
for another day of whatever shit the city would try to
throw at me, knowing I would throw it right back.
The sunlight was warm and steady, just like I sort of
remembered it.

The answers to your burning questions answered next time! (some of them at least) See you soon!

Aescension