Pizza is good. Missed opportunities
less so. Still, the rats let me know the ship was sinking, at least.
I stumble from place to place, and change a few times along the way.
Trying to keep track of the clothes is the hardest part, here,
exactly what clothes indicate what seems to change almost from block
to block at times.
Eventually, I'm back in suit territory.
Several miles from the port. Too bad, it could have been a good
little base of operations, if only for minor things. Still, there
are always other options, new people who will give me money for doing
simple, pointless things.
I decide to leave that avenue for
another day, and find myself at the library again. Pop culture is
the best kind of thing to learn, right now. Common accents,
terminology, reference points. Without the internet, these things
would be much harder to pick up.
I sit down at an unused computer,
taking care to check my finger lengths. They might be able to pick
me up by my typing patterns, even with all the changes to my hands.
It'll take them some time, though, and watching videos minimizes
interaction with the machine.
All of you sitting around me, why are
you here? Some seem to be students, others tired people with nothing
to do. A few obsessives, a few social rejects, a few homeless. The
only ones with direction seem to have no sense of what a good
direction might be.
I start, as I sometimes do, by
searching locally for anything with the word Gretchen in it. She
won't use that name, of course, or look like I remember, but
somewhere in there, she'll give herself away. I've had tastes, a few
times, glimpses, moments, and it has led me to many places.
But nothing interesting shows itself in
my drunkard's walk through this collection. I decide to settle for
basic research, my original intent. I still sound too much like a
foreigner for my own comfort.
A title catches my eye, something I
think I might have seen before, and liked. I punch it up, putting in
a pair of ear buds I acquired on my way here. Credits roll, and I
wish I could have some popcorn, just to complete the image.
And I am in the foyer. Blood
everywhere, bodies strewn about. Again. What did I watch? What did
I see? What did this to me? I cannot remember after sitting down.
Sirens, closing quickly. This took me a
while, with so many. Some escaped, no doubt, others had phones.
There will be a description.
I drop my outermost layer of flesh to
decay on the ground. Human blood is dangerous, if it gets into my
system, and I can't take any risks. What I leave here will be gone
before anyone can really examine it, fade into a the red slurry on
the floor.
For most of you, the roof is a terrible
choice. Once you're up there, you can't actually go anywhere, except
in a few places. If I head up, they'll think they have me. But I've
already planned this route, done it all over the city, anywhere I
expect to spend time. I should be back in my crate in no more than
twelve minutes. Ten if I'm not injured. No time to really check,
even though the smell of cordite is in the air.
I hit the stairwell and start climbing,
pulling myself from the underside of each flight over to its top.
Much quicker that way. The locked door to the roof poses no problem,
but makes a great deal of noise when I hit it.
It's left out of this door, and then a
thirty meter leap across to the wall of the next building. Up and
onto the roof, then a long leap off to the West. I let my gliding
membranes run from wrist to ankle, just enough to slow me slightly
and allow me to steer.
Land, roll, run, leap. I repeat this
until the sirens are lost in the distance. If they have a helicopter
up, it won't be searching this far away, yet. Whatever I did, they
won't catch me, not yet.
My crate, finally. I squeeze in and
let myself simply breathe for a while. A bad day, a risky day. Will
they see me in the blood I left behind?
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