Red Twilight: Long Distence Runners

Chapter 12

The Man with No Name

If nothing, the thing that defines what is a man is this: Man is the simian that is hairless and utilizes handheld tools in order to manipulate his environment. Think about it, reader. Right now are you carrying a phone or a flashlight? Or maybe you have a knife strapped to your belt? We all carry tools; we all use them too. Snake Gekks is no exception.

How you use your tool states a good bit about who you are. I have seven pens in my cargo pocket and a notebook sown into the inside of my coat, as well as a crowbar I keep that slides down my back and a knife tied to my ankle.

Snake's tools are far more inconspicuous and a bit more devious. Hidden in his billfold is a screwdriver, in his shirt cuff is woven a lonely nail, in his b.r.e.a.s.t pocket is a magnifying glass, a bottle of petroleum-based jelly, and a vial of something called blade oil; then tucked into the back of his paints is a pair of wire cutters and a miniature tool kit containing a pair of pliers, a bottle opener, measuring rod (like a yard stick but only counts up to eleven inches) and three different grains of nail file. I can only imagine what some of these things would be used for.

I explain to Snake my plan; he seems enthusiastic. "This sounds like a great plan—death and mayhem. Sign me up. I like anarchy just as much as anyone else."

"The plan sucks, but given the limited parts catalog it's the best I can come up with."

"So you and me," Snake points between us, "we're going to drive your car through the front door of a military compound. I'm going to pop the guy at the desk, then you're going to do your magic thing to disarm the rest of the guards and then blast our way up the stairwell. We save my brother and you cut off the head of the building's director of research and then we set everything on fire for three blocks.

That's it, right?"

"Yeah, that's about it."

"Great, let's get started." Snake starts to stand up. I admit I'm thrilled that he is suddenly so agreeable. "Oh, but one more thing. I think we might get a little farther if we do a few things differently. First, I need my suitcase out of my car, and then I think we should start from the parking depot."

"That might be harder than it sounds." Snake looks at me with a sour exasperation. "In case your memories are a bit foggy, we did shoot our way out of the hospital."

Snake brushes down his short hair and sighs, mumbling to himself, "Strangely, this isn't the first time." To be fair, I was the one that did all the shooting.

"Also we're going to need a new car."

"Where is yours?"

"My lady friend just took it to be incinerated."

Snake nods for a moment, considering the logic behind the aforementioned action. "Yap, I can see that. That is definitely a reasonable response." He then takes a long breath and blows it out slow through his teeth hissing. "So let's go shopping."

Snake and I leave the motel. We make our way across the parking lot, looking at an assortment of possible forms of transportation. Snake is a connoisseur of engines. He seems to have a taste for fashion—small cars with big engines, muscley, sporty, imported. This seems to be where his head is at as we look at pros and cons of the latter. He seems to have a feeling that the Italians make the most classy of cars. I think the same thing about Detroit—nothing says love like an eight cylinder with a full steel frame in my eyes.

It takes some work but we come to agree on the utility of a "Dodge Neon"—small, discreet, and fresh off the assembly line. OK, really neither of us are happy with the fiberglass nightmare, but it is good enough.

I go for the driver side door, Snake for the trunk. Snake starts to say something as I'm reaching for my crowbar. "OK, this thing most likely has E-locks. You can override them by . . ." He stops abruptly as I smash out the rear driver side window. Snake seems unapproving. "You and I are going to need to work on communicating better."

I open the door and jam my crowbar into the steering column and with a slight twist break it open. Snake looks at me as he climbs in the passenger side door. "I assume you can bypass the starter?" I ask. He lies down across the seats and pulls the pliers off his belt.

"It's not the starter I'm concerned with. It's the ignition," Snake explains as he starts cutting apart and pinching together wires.

I find my thoughts momentarily turning to my brother and a story he told me about a man getting locked in the trunk of his car. I guess that it would have been triggered by what I prevented Snake from saying just a moment ago. But then something catches my eye—a light from the backseat that only I can see.

"Be wary, Augustus, for I am the 'letter' sent to speak of your death," a low monotone voice comes from behind.

"Prone fighting" is a skill extremely useful to one like myself. This is the skill to function normally under unpredictable conditions, like lying down or sitting on your knees. This is a skill I wish I had. I twist about in my char and draw my gun. A tiny Asian in blue jeans, a turtleneck, and a bird mask off to one side is on his knees behind us.

One foot comes up and pushes my gun up and away from him, then the other smacks me off to the side. I'm stunned; Snake seems to understand something is astray. He sits up drawing two guns. The little man in the back wraps his legs around Snake's head and thrusts him against the dashboard, then hops into the front with us. Snake tries to find a clean shot, but the monkeylike boy is struggling fast. He reaches around Snake and jams the hammer of his gun with what appears to be the stick off a sucker, then steals the magazine out of the other.

I regain my balance and thrust out with a psionic blast, knocking the door off its hinges, launching the kid out of the car. He lies on his back, baffled by my power, but his exasperation fails to show it. Snake nimbly jumps down and kneels atop his quarry. Snake grips him by the shirt and slaps him against the ground several times. "How the f.u.c.k are you? And how the f.u.c.k did you do that shit?"

"I am the letter N."

I step over the boy "N," and I hold my gun down at him. He doesn't sweat; he doesn't even blink. "N" has no fear of death; he's not intimidated in the least. In fact he mocks us. "Shoot if you like, but I think that might not be relevant to your interest." He sits and watches for several seconds strangely as it is staring Snake and me down. He isn't defeated; he could get up and maybe even take one of us out. But he doesn't. He waits to see if one of us is going to make a move.

Snake looks at me. I look at him. I hesitate. "N" has seen all he needs to. He slides one foot beneath and shoves him off gently. "Seeing you haven't killed me yet, let's go inside for a word," he mumbles as he stuffs his hands in his pockets, withdraws a peppermint, and pops it in his mouth. He walks slouched over, hands deep in his pockets. He has strange eyes, but something tells me to trust him.

(Note from Archive Watcher S, L. Gillard: Typically when a Watcher turns in a note that has clearly controversial nature I like to cut around the questionable content and get straight to the heart of the story. I struggled a good deal trying to decide if the words written in the following pages of the Blake book were truly meaningful. Ultimately I have decided to leave the following segment untouched as I feel understanding the writer and his friends may be significant to latter pieces.)

"I have been following you since you crossed over the Texas border. I was curious what a three-time loser like you would be doing calling the police." He is referring to Snake. "I'm happy I took the hint because you see it turns out that you and I have a common goal. I'll spare you the specifics, but it turns out we both have business at Claw Co. Tower. And it is of less than a reputable nature. I would have gone in with my own team, but it turns out that revenue is a green light, manpower is not. So I am going to ask, what do you need from me?" We step into the room I rented.

"That depends. What can you do?" Snake leads off the conversation.

"N" kneels next to the radio and starts fiddling with the dials. "I have friends working in the CIA, KGB, NATO, M6, a couple of less sterling places also. So I repeat, what do you need?"

"First off, a decent battle strategy, second off I lost some of my gear when d.i.c.kless over there picked me up." Snake starts off

"N" leans in, biting onto one finger, awaiting more information.

"I need a 'skimmer,' a set of 'dead keys,' a 'blank card,' 'EMF reader,' and a 'memory stick' 10 g minimum." Snake rants

"N" looks up. "Is that all?"

Snake nods. "I would say that's a good start."

"OK." The way he nods, you would think that Snake had asked for nothing more than flour and eggs. To tell you the truth, I don't know what most of that stuff is. Sounds like some real James Bond stuff. "N" pulls a phone from his pocket; he flips it open, revealing a keyboard, and types a quick note. "A young lady will be coming here soon to drop off the tools you requested."

Snake whacks his head tapping it against the back wall of the room mystified by the swiftness of the statement. "That's it? It's that easy?"

"None of what you ask for is illegal to possess. They're small-time black market devices. True you can't walk into just any hardware store and acquire these without earning a strange look, but on the other hand, there are legitimate reasons to have any of them."

"It took me half a year to put together that little toolbox."

"Understandable." "N" stands. "Do you like music?" I shrug; I've taken out my book at this point and am working on it, actively taking notes.

Snake on the other hand nods and proclaims, "Yes." "N" seems happy; he turns the radio on at last. He has keyed in the local classical station; the song playing when the music starts, I believe is one of the Franz Schubert symphonies.

"N" twiddles his hands over his head in the pantomime of dance. (Don't ask me how I know this.) The music is slow and threatening. N responds with the mime of evil; he holds his arm up and stretches his back, then curves his fingers mimicking a bird. He dips, lowering his wings, back steps and flaps again, standing upright. He walks halfway around the room this way. As the music slows, N's legs drift apart, and he falls face first to the floor. A lighter melody intercedes; N starts to rise back to his feet, slow and delicate, reaching out like a flower looking for sunlight.

This interpretive art persists for close to twenty minutes. Snake seems shocked, disgusted, and yet captivated. The performance is interrupted by a knocking at the door. A young women stands waiting outside with honeycomb hair, bifocals, and a black leather bodysuit. She refers to N as "Reizuki," Reizuki to her as "Lichi." She drops off a suitcase filled with the devices Snake was looking for as well as a twelve pack of brew and a box of hamburgers.

Snake and I pull back six beers a piece over dinner. Reizuki doesn't take a one. It's my feeling that N would be happier as some form of clown or carny. He has a beautiful child-like playfulness; as Snake and I are eating, he starts juggling the room with anything we would hand him. He shows us some cheap magic tricks and even swindles us conmen in a game of poker late in the evening. But he is fair about it; he lets us in on the joke.

I think it would be fair to say Reizuki Low is just what Snake and I needed—a brilliant mind when needed, a fun-loving brother when we don't. Yes, N isn't afraid to die, but he isn't afraid to live either. I had more fun that night in the motel than any day before that comes to mind.

I awaken with bloodshot eyes and my head spinning. I'm sitting on the chair with my back to the wall, notebook in hand with the paper drool-stained. Snake is face down on the bed, pants unbuttoned, one hand squeezing his c.h.e.s.t, the other on his junk. N on the other hand is wide awake standing in perfect swan stance in front of the bathroom door, one leg behind him, on one foot, arms outstretched, fingers down and together.

I sit with one eye open for some time watching him. His eyes look hard and focused, but the rest of his face is cold and unmoving. His posture remains firm as rock. I must have sat watching for fifteen minutes; if it wasn't for his breathing, I might have thought him actually made of stone, a manikin blocking the door. It is somehow magical. Yet eerie . . .

Finally I close my book and he takes notice. Reizuki places both feet firmly to the ground and slumps over the way he had yesterday. "Good morning, Richard." His gaze is piercing. I can only imagine that this is what it is like when I look at someone. "Did you sleep well?" He is polite.

"Like the restless dead. Did you sleep?"

"I never sleep anymore." He sidesteps, twisting in a playful cyclone, making room for me to step into the bathroom as he falls into the wall collapsing like a ragdoll in a heap.

"What were you doing?"

"Kiba-ditchi."

"What is that?"

"It's kind of like a dance."

"How long were you standing like that?"

"Three hours, give or take."

"Incredible." I splash some cold water on my face and step out of the restroom. N is now standing on his hands, looking beneath himself at me, hooked into a C-like shape. "That is just strange. How long can you hold that?"

"All day."

"Why did you say that stuff about spies last night?"

"Two things: first, I don't think you believed me in the first place and who would believe you anyway? Second, as far as anyone is concerned we are both dead already or should be." I offer a puzzled look to my new companion. He knows what is on my mind, so he simply continues, "What that is to say is that the Gekks brothers have injured more than a handful of people during their exploits across the America's, amongst them being half a dozen federal employees. This isn't official of course, but the feeling in most law enforcement officers right now is 'if you see a Gekks brother, shoot to kill' and so." He pauses there to let me join the discussion, or maybe he is waiting for me to catch up on my notes.

"and what are your feelings?"

"Philosophically speaking? . . . I don't want to see the 'bad guys' dead. I want to see them humiliated. I want them marched out onto the streets n.a.k.e.d, their names tattooed on their forehead, and those of everyone they harmed cut into their arms. Their rap sheet branded on their backs. I want them stood under spotlights so everyone can see them clearly, and once that is over, I want them locked in a box and stored in a tiny room like the ones in kennels. No, I don't want them dead at-all. I in fact would prefer them kept healthy. Why after all that keep them alive? Because I want to know everything they know, and they might be having trouble remembering details right now. Surely they'll remember sooner or later, and when they do, I want someone like you, Richard, there to write down whatever they might say." I feel flabbergasted; I lose my grip on my pen, and it takes me several seconds to find it and finish recording that mouthful.

"And in this fascist fantasy, you would be right behind Snake getting tattooed, I assume?"

"Do you remember what I said last night when we first met? . . . Look it up in your book if you need to."

I try to recall off the top of my head. "Be afraid for I have the letter telling of your death."

"Be wary, Augustus, for I am the 'letter' sent to speak of your death," he quotes himself. "Back around the turn of the first age, the world was entwined in the first real world war. No one called it that mostly due to the lack communication between cities and townsh.i.p.s. If you were a gambler at the time, the safe bet would be to say Augustus the Sicilian would become the ruler of the world. He was a bronze age Colonial Gaddafi. People liked him. He was a military leader turned king. His ideals were a decade ahead of his time. He had the aid of the at the time 'orthodox church.' Worst off, he was smart. He built forts with their backs to the oceans and towns on hillsides."

"I don't see where this is going."

"You see, the church got scared. Augustus was unpredictable. They tried to pull the plug. Augustus got the picture and cut off the church, but still wanted to fight his wars. Reaching him with words and uniformed militia became unlikely, so the church hired privateers to assassinate him. Augustus was murdered at his dining room table by his date, and the wars he started defused themselves."

"Is that all true?"

Reizuki hops up on the table and starts to suck on a sucker crossing his legs. "Not likely, but the story offers presidents for governments to hire professional infiltrators, pickpockets, and ruffians of all types. Licensed criminals to everyone that matters . . . Let's say I have a license to kill. And so long as it's clean and quiet, no one ask me why."

"You a contract killer?"

"No, I am a letter."

I try like hell to get more information from him, but N doesn't seem to feel like talking anymore. Snake is finally awake and alert around half past four. So we eat and start on the road to our next battle.

* * *

While they walk around the mansion, Tail takes Lincoln by the arm. "Wait! Lincoln, if I know that someone here was conspiring to kill someone what could I do to stop it?"

Gallard looks at Tail. "You would find a Cerberus member and tell them what you know, and you had best be able to find another Watcher to vouch for you. Giving a Cerberus misleading information is subject to fourteen days' lockup."

Tail takes a deep breath, then explains, "England is a demon and is portending to be Joe Dove. He has brought several alien life forms into the mansion and intends to murder Wright Von Richton."

Gallard looks over the tops of his glasses. "Do you have proof?"

Tail nods vigorously and starts tugging his arm. Partway down to the observatory where Tail and England had previously met, Gallard contacts one Officer Freemen to take notice of the event.

Tail stops outside the door. The Cerberus called Freemen looks at Tail with a steel gaze. "So . . . ?" He steps in close to her "What am I looking at?"

Tail grunts, "You tell me what they are." She points at the door. "There are two of them, and it looks to me like they feed off each other to grow bigger."

Freemen creaks the door open, ushering the others to stand back. "Two? I see three goddamned flies—eight foot length, with mandibles, pincers, and stingers."

Tail looks fearful. "That doesn't sound right."

Freemen closes the door and looks at Tail. "The Cerberus have a saying. 'If you fight, you will be respected. If you kill, you will be honored. If you die, you will be remembered.' So . . ." He reaches down onto his hip and pulls out what looks like a shotgun mounted on a pistol's handle. "You looking for a little honor?" He offers his gun to Tail; she looks at it and starts mentally dissecting the tool. Freemen draws a second gun for himself.

"Does everyone carry two guns around here?"

Freemen nods. "I personally have three." He creaks the door open again to take one more inventory of the room. "One on the left wall, one in back, last is front and center. I'll take the front and back. You grab the last. Got it?"

Freemen kicks in the door with Tail's go-ahead. He launches from his gun spears that explode on contact. The first two monsters never see him coming. Tail fires but misses. The last monster swinges it's tail at her and steals the gun. It snaps its tail out to pick her up, in the same movement throws Freemen on his back. Tail back-steps and raises her hand, throwing a cone of flames from her arm; the beast's oily body burns into nothingness in the stream of flames.

Freemen nods at Tail in shock at the strange event. "Good work!" He is stunned. "Next, let's grab England."

Tail returns home with a sense of accomplishment, because of what she has done; she knows that the monster called England isn't going to hurt anyone anytime soon. Doing good doesn't require any reward. She jumps into her bed and sighs a joyful sigh. Tail takes a moment to loosen up and relax. She unbuttons the Hawaiian shirt she is wearing as well as her jeans, then unbuckles her belt. Prideful, she giggles wondering if this stunt might buy her some newfound respect. Tail's victory would not last.

* * *

Von Richton returns from her trip in the first hours following midnight. On her return, she is greeted by trusted friends and coworkers at the landing bay, amongst these friends being Mr. L. Gallard from archives, Mr. E. Frog from Cerberus, Ms. C. Davis from research, but someone is missing still—her pet dog Mr. England.

Where he should be standing is instead Ms. M Malaguard.

"Ms. Malaguard? Where is Mr. England?" Von Richton asks.

Frog intercedes; Frog is a middle-aged man that wears his hair long to try to hide his age. He has a hefty smoker's voice with a deep growl to it. "Specs tells me he is being held in detention."

Joe Dove replies, "After fifteen hours talking to the president about short-term financing options, I doubt that is what she wanted to hear."

"And why would my most trusted friend and bodyguard be being held in detention?" Wright inquires.

"Suspension of conspiracy to commit murder."

Von Richton's eyes almost burn with rage. "I want to see the officer that filed that report in my throne room at the turn of the hour. And so long as you are intent on making my life difficult, would Cerberus like to say anything else?"

Frog nods. "We resaved a call from Sinister Walker. He is sending one Secretary Kristal Bell to help us with an audit."

Everyone looks irritated. Von Richton grunts. "Then let me tell you what I want you to do when Ms. Bell shows up. I want you to inform her that she is on private property and that before you can escort her around the property you will need to see her ID. She is going to fail to provide proper doc.u.mentations and you are going to slay her. Do you understand?"

Frog growls, "Hey, I slay monsters, not people! Got it!"

"Edmond!" she shouts. "If you can't do the job, I will find someone that can!"

"I can't let you do that!" he shouts back.

"Watch me!"

Frog steps in threateningly; Captain Millie Malaguard steps in between him and Von Richton as does Joe Dove. Von Richton grips her cane and starts to twist the handle, ready to draw a hidden weapon from within. Dove grabs Von Richton's arm to still her. Edmond opens his coat, showing off a crusader-style knife with ornamental flair.

The two long-time coworkers are held apart like children on a playground looking to brawl. Gallard offers interjection, "Maybe we can find a solution with less collateral."

Von Richton takes his hand off her cane. "Mr. Gallard, what do we know about Senator Walker?" Seeing that conversation has resumed, Edmond grunts and stands down.

Gallard folds his hands as he speaks, "He is an activist for demi-human rights. He is a Fay. He belongs to the Luna clan . . ."

"How much does he know about us?" von Richton adjusts her glasses as she asks.

"Enough to make our lives somewhat uncomfortable."

Dove ponders for a moment. "I think I did an interview with him some time ago. I remember him resisting some piece of poetry. Lincoln, the phrase 'I am the

Letter,' does it mean anything to you?"

"Spooks, nothing but ghost stories, brother. The Letters were supposedly a group of super elite soldiers, invisible people recruiting invisible people to do invisible work."

"I don't think I like the way this is going," Frog adds.

Joe nods. "I think Ed is on to something. Lincoln, can you prowl the books and find me any stories that might link the senator to a group that is or maybe the so-called Letters? I think we should put this to the test. See if this ghost story holds water."

"I can, and I shall."

"Good!" Von Richton proclaims. "Ms. Malaguard, I want you to go with Mr. Frog to escort our Cerberuses to my room as well as any other witnesses to this so-called conspiracy. Mr. Dove, I need you to check on to all phone calls and e-mails received by the Watchers in the last three months. So long as you're at it, I want all of you to start checking badges around your departments. If there is anyone in the building whose identity you're not one hundred percent on, call me."

All in unison say, "By your command, Ms. Von Richton."

"Good. Dismissed."

* * *

Tail has only started to drift off to sleep when she is called to alert by a strange scent. She opens her eyes to find the Seth, Captain Malaguard, slipping into her room. Tail rolls off her bed and picks up her sword. Which turns out to be a meaningless but still funny proposition, as with the first step back she goes to take, she trips over her pants, having neglected to notice they have slipped down to her knees.

The giant kangaroo looks over the bed at her. "Is everything all right, Ms. Vixon?"

Tail lies on the ground a bit, her bells ringing. "Hand please." Millie reaches one hand down and lifts Tail not only to her feet but briefly off the ground with one hand. "Thanks." She pulls up and rebuckels her pants.

"Ms. Vixon, you have been summand to the royal banquet hall to give testimony against Hunter HU code named 'England.' You are being asked to attend dressed in your service blue uniform, and you are to appear unarmed. You will need your 'Watchers' diary,' and you are allowed conferences from a Watcher of equal or greater rank and decoration. You may decline any or all of this services. You do so at your own recourse. If you do not have a service blue uniform, I am to have you fitted with a 'royal white.' If you have no councilor, I am to afford you one. You have one hour to shower and to seek council. I am to accompany you for both. Will you comply? Take note if you refuse to comply, I am authorized to hold you in contempt of the court."

"These are my rights as a witness to a crime? What if I were a criminal myself?" Malaguard refuses to answer; she simply repeats the same speech. "OK, I get it. Get me a set of royal whites and give Joe Dove a call. I want his help on this. I really don't know what is going on, and Joe seems like an upfront sort of guy."

Millie indeed does as asked; she calls Dove and has an outfit delivered for Tail. She also follows Tail into the shower as she claimed she would. It is uncomfortable for both of them and more than a touch unsettling for Tail to have another girl watching her in the bathroom. Tail tries to make fun of the situation with remarks like "Want to jump in?" and "Wash my back for me, will ya?" Millie is not amused; this is for work not p.l.e.a.s.u.r.e. Most would see this as a violation of civil-liberty, but as Von Richton has pointed out as well as to many others within the order, liberty belongs to humans and civilians; freaks like Millie and Tail are neither.

* * *

One by one, Von Richton invites her Cerberus members into her chamber to review their stories. She has everything she needs to pass judgment well before Tail arrives. The chamber is a lavish room. The ceiling is twenty feet overhead lined with stone arches. The floor is a hard gray stone with an early church emblem drawn across the floor. The room is lit by coal burning brasseries; the centerpiece of the room is a stained glass window with the Watchers' crest adorned upon it, and the ghastly Wright Von Richton herself waits on a magnificent chair with two cats making up the arms with their backend's in the air presenting, a faceless gargoyle perched atop it.

Von Richton has her mouth covered in part by one hand and is leaning off to one side reading aloud to herself as Tail walks in. "To my would-be friends, today is a dark day. Tomorrow may be even darker without your help. We live in a world where money can pay for freedom and justice is for sale. I believe this is unacceptable. Justice in the perfect world is unequivocal. If you feel the way I do, then please read on. My name is Reizuki Low also called 'N.' I am a member of a group that quests for a better tomorrow . . ." She halts her reading there to turn her attention fully to Tail. Her glasses flash a bright yellow as her head lifts to meet Tail's glances. "Yes, in the perfect world justice would be unequivocal, wouldn't it?" Tail just nods.

Tail nods. "Yes, I guess so?"

"I've looked through all the relevant facts, and it seems that all is as you claimed. But that doesn't mean that you have been truthful. I've gone through your e-mail and your phone records. It seems to me that you have had contact with a potentially dangerous individual. Tell me, Ms. Vixon, what do you know about the terrorist called 'N'?"

Tail shakes her head. "I have no idea who you're talking about."

"You have never heard of a man calling himself 'N'?" Von Richton leans in, dropping the paper. "You have an e-mail from him." Tail shakes her head again. "Well, then let's move on." Something seems wrong about the way she has stated this; Tail can sense that that was too easy. "Tell me about your relationship with Mr. Blake please."

Tail's ears raise in ponder as she tries to interpret the question and its reinvention. "He's been my roommate for almost a month now. I've cooked for him. He has seen me dancing around in my knickers, but that's not uncommon. Most the people here have far as I can tell. The three days we have been home at the same time I've slept in the bedroom, he in the front room."

Joe Dove slides into the room, staying hidden in the back corner. He slouches forth onto his cane; he watches with great interest. He fails to escape his guardian angel's gaze. Von Richton leans in; she rests her elbows on the backs of her cats and folds her hands in front of her face. Her glasses flare a brilliant yellow. "Good. Now another question. Why would you, Ms. Vixon, have any interest in protecting me, the exulted Aska Wright Von Richton?" "Aska?" Tail whispers.

"Do you want money?"

"No."

"Do you want fame?"

" . . ."

"You want my admiration and gratitude?"

"No."

"You lie." A strange pink glow filters through her glasses.

"You want to know why I felt the need to protect you? Fine, every life holds weight. I protected you because I thought you needed to be protected."

"You have made a terrible miscalculation, freak."

"You have a meager inferiority complex, you know that?"

"Such insolences." Von Richton stands. "You're going right back into the freezer! Seventeen days' isolation! And I don't care whose eye you catch!"

"You wrench, selfish cunt!" Tail protests as enforcers start to flood into the room from unseen doors.

"Hold it!" Dove shouts. Everything in the room seems to freeze instantly with the exception of Tail. Tail's head has lowered in expectation of impact. She back-steps and looks around.

"T—hell just happened?"

Joe smiles. "How about house arrest instead?"

* * *

Snake has taken the wheel; Blake sits in the passenger seat, Reizuki in the back. Blake's Elvin accomplice never did return. One of "N's" coworkers has brought them a new set of wheels—a small Euro-style sports car, red with a yellow strip running down the center. Reizuki sits on his knees, a sucker sticking out the side of his mouth, staring at Blake; Blake is staring at his phone. They are only a handful of miles away from the "Claw Corporation Towers." The sun is setting.

"N" questions, "Waiting for someone?"

"No."

Low turns his head, nearly upside-down. "A girl maybe, a coworker. Anyone I might know?"

"No."

Reizuki nods. "I see. Tell me, Richard, have you ever seen one of this?" He holds up a tooth-shaped device with an antenna. Blake takes the surreal-looking tool, pinching it between two fingers. He is ready to ask "what is this?" but Reizuki beats him to the punch. "That little toy might just be the most indispensable communication device since the telegraph in a year or two. But today it's just a gizmo that rich kids like to play around with. It's a satellite communication device, tentatively called a tooth. You can see why. It functions similarly to your cell phone. It's just smarter. Tell it who you are trying to call, give it their SIM number, and assign a keyword to them, and anytime you say that word it will contact the person in question. If you don't know their SIM, it will work with telephone numbers just as well. Give it a try."

Blake rambles off Tail's name and number, then follows Reizuki's instruction on how to hook the gadget around his ear. Not but a moment later, Tail's voice comes over the wire. "Operator," she announces.

Blake looks somehow surprised by the clarity the so-called tooth offers. Reizuki rolls his hand, signaling for Blake to talk. "Tail? Can you hear me?"

"Howdy, partner, how goes the trails?" Tail fakes a Texan voice.

"I'm approaching my first objective ETA ten minutes. Do we have tactical support waiting?"

Tail laughs. "I grow up there. I've got everything but the code to the owner's locker."

"Look for it. I might need that too."

Tail can be heard typing over the line. "We have security hacks. We have artillery data, building schismatics, shifts, utility data. Tell me what do you need. Brother!" she cackles a playful bark

Blake's head falls back as he thinks. "Stay on the line. Have you ever read SKIMS actively?"

Tail nearly barks, "I was trained to do hardware to wetware interactions. Of course, I can read a SKIMS."

The three unlikely allies look at each other, fear and hesitation visible on the faces of the hunter and the thief, as well as determination, the thief also showing jealous passion in his eyes; as for the man called "N," his eyes tell no tales. As the others work, looking over their inventory one last time, the Letter N eats another peppermint. N never sweats, N never shows fear, N is almost more mechanoid than man to an onlooker. Who is N? What is N? Not even Blake knows the answers yet . . .

ACT II