Vox Mentis

Ask who Rain's working with. If she's not some weird rogue agent solo predator bullshit, it might pay to get it over and done with and go quietly with the competent folks.

>"hi rain who are you?"

I mean, no one would just stand in front of a car if they actually expected to get hit, right? She must have known about Mel's SUV. I think that's reason enough to think "yeah maybe the person these assholes are treating as a threat really really is." You should probably say something.

The van's side door is pulled open and the short man comes in. He looks at you. "What?"

The tall man stares at you from the front seat. He slid into the van without you noticing. "He's seen something."

"Rain," you say. "Under the-"

"Shit," says the short man, and tumbles out of the van. You hear his footsteps. You glance back at the side mirror and there's nothing there anymore. A few moments pass. There's a noise. The girl in the blue dress bursts past your window, startling you, her blond hair streaming. There's a hammer of gunfire. She falls bonelessly to the concrete.

"Don't move," the tall man says to you.

"Who is she?" you ask. "Who is she with?"

"Wolf. Do not move."

The short man comes around the van and looks at you. The barrel of his gun is smoking. He looks at the girl and gives a short, barking laugh. "I got her!"

You can see the girl's eyes. She's sprawled on her stomach, hair sprayed across her face, but you can still see that her eyes are the same blue as her dress. Dark blood creeps across the pavement.

"Fucking got her!" says the short man. "Holy shit! I nailed a poet!"

The tall man revs the engine. "Let's go."

The short man gestures: Wait. He moves close to the girl, keeping his gun trained on her, as if there's some chance she might get up. She doesn't move. He reaches her and prods her with his shoe.

The girl's eyes shift. "Cortrex hilo kiq trattrak," she says, or something like that. "Shoot yourself."

The short man brings the tip of his gun to his chin and pulls the trigger. His head snaps back. The tall man kicks open the van door and raises his shotgun to his shoulder. He discharges it at the girl. Her body jerks. The tall man walks forward, ejects the spent cartridge, and fires again. Thunder rolls around the hangar.

By the time the tall man returns to the van, his eyes are full of death. You sit tight in the van. Your bound hands press into your back. The tall man puts the van in reverse, navigates around the two bodies, and accelerates into the night. He does not speak or look in your direction. You watch buildings flit by without hope: You might have had a chance to escape, but that's all over now.

~

"Hmm," says the man in the trucker cap. "I think... no... just a second here..."

"Take your time, sir," you say. "The queen isn't going nowhere. She's quite comfortable under there, in all her skirts. She'll wait for you all day." You smile at a man standing behind the trucker. The man smiles back, remembers his wife, frowns. Forget that guy, then.

"On the left," says a woman in an I <3 SAN FRANCISCO sweater. Her eyes dart at you. "I think."

"You think?" says the trucker.

"I'm pretty sure."

You slip the woman a wink. You got it. The woman's lips tighten, pleased.

"I dunno," says the trucker. "I was thinking middle."

"The queen's quick on her feet, sir. No shame in not being able to follow her. Take a guess."

"Middle," says the trucker, because Take a guess means, That's enough, Jimmy. Jimmy's not a trucker, of course. He found that cap in an alley. With it pulled low, and his straggly sand-colored beard, he can pass.

"You sure, now? You got some advice from this lady here."

"Nah, definitely middle."

"As you say, sir." You flip the middle card. The crowd murmurs. "Sorry, sir. She got away from you." It took a little work to get the queen from right to left, a Mexican Turnover, but you made it. "On the left, just as the lady said. Should have listened. Quick eye you have there, ma'am. Very quick." You spread the cards, scoop them up, and flip them from hand to hand, fast but not too fast. Sections of the crowd begin to move away. You tuck a strand of blond hair behind your ear. You're wearing a big floppy hat with colored panels, which you have to keep pushing back to keep it from falling over your eyes. "Care to try, ma'am? Only two dollars. Simplest thing in the world, if you've got the knack for it."

The woman hesitates. Only one game in her. Sometimes you'll let a mark win the first game so they want to play again, and again, and again. But that only works on a certain type of person. Still, two dollars. Two dollars is fine.

"I'll play."

The speaker is a young man with long hair in a cheap, faded black suit and a pale yellow tie. A plastic ID hangs from his shirt pocket. There are four of them, two more boys and a girl, all with that look, like college students on summer jobs. Salespeople, maybe, of something cheap and devious. Not cops. You can tell that. Cops are a constant hazard on the pier. You grin. The woman in the sweater is moving away, but that doesn't matter. Cheap-suit guy is better. A lot better.

What's your strategy with this guy?