gloves she pulled on as she stood at the front door. Once more she turned toward me, blew me one last kiss, snatched her bomber jacket off the coat rack and was gone. Several minutes later I heard the roaring growl of her little bugeyed sportster as it shot out into traffic, eight floors below, and rocketed into the city. I could only imagine the chaos Pandora Demour and her entourage of bullets and blood and exhaust would be wreaking across Capital City tonight.
A familiar urge pulled me from the bed, toward the bathroom. My PDA would be chiming
soon, and I needed my time at the window. On the edge of the sink, where Pan always left it, was her hairbrush. Picking it up, I held the flat, cool Bakelite back against my lips. My eyes slipped closed as I ran my thumb through the corn colored bristles and inhaled the aroma of her hair once more. I bit my bottom lip and walked toward the bedroom window, brush still pressed against my lips.
It was the same every time she left. The brush against my face, standing next to the floor to ceiling window, wondering and imagining where she was, what she was doing, who she was killing. I never imagined the actual act, though. I couldn’t seem to bring myself to picture it, as if doing so would somehow violate some sacred separation between who she was, and who I conceived her to be. I knew, had always known, that she was as cold a killer as any in Capital City, perhaps even the world. But I knew her now as only my lover, the kinky, soft spoken blonde paradox who loved a quality evening dress as much as she loved engine grease beneath her nails. So, when I pictured her out to work, I only saw the glamour and romance of the famous Pandora Demour speeding through the city in her tiny green sportster, her perfect hair and long tan scarf waving out behind her.
Tonight, however, something felt different about the whole thing. I had a name, and a face I knew.
Carter Cole.
A “hardcase,” was what Pan had called him. Cole had plenty of blood on his own hands, the only real difference being that, as far as I was aware, he never expressly intended to kill. It was simply a part of his territory. Cole was a killer, not a murderer. Some called it a small, still voice that warned you of a moral dilemma. Mine was not small, nor was it still. I heard the voice of my mother, loud and brassy, the southern twang as clear as the day I left for Capital City. It wasn’t as easy to ignore inside my head as it had been when I was a teenager. I ran away from her judgement, only to find it take root in my brain. It was never a scenario specific tirade, as it had been in person. She only repeated the last thing I had ever heard from her:
“If you want to be a criminal, go to Capital City.”
And I had. And I was.
Now, I pushed the voice of my mother away, and saw a vivid image of Carter Cole, lying in the street, rain beating down on him and washing a crimson river from under his overcoat into the gutter.
Pushing back the curtain, however, I saw that the sky above the constant layer of smog was clear, and the chance of rain tonight would be slim. Still, the vision was stubborn, invasive even, and I knew that the poor bastard didn’t stand a chance.
Pandora Demour wasn’t famous for nothing.
Just as my flashbulb thoughts of glamour and fame were replacing the single shot gore of Carter Cole’s body, a bright green light burst into the sky above the city, followed by blue, then red, then white, all refracting through the Cloud to create a strange, purplish glow that spread and dissipated just above my building. Each explosion fanned out in brilliant flowering displays of smaller explosions, raining down behind the skyscrapers. Only then did I notice how alive Capital City was tonight. It seemed every block, every rooftop and balcony had double, triple and sometimes dozens of skyward spotlights, all spinning and rocking multicolored logos across the Cloud. The traffic below my apartment was always
A familiar urge pulled me from the bed, toward the bathroom. My PDA would be chiming
soon, and I needed my time at the window. On the edge of the sink, where Pan always left it, was her hairbrush. Picking it up, I held the flat, cool Bakelite back against my lips. My eyes slipped closed as I ran my thumb through the corn colored bristles and inhaled the aroma of her hair once more. I bit my bottom lip and walked toward the bedroom window, brush still pressed against my lips.
It was the same every time she left. The brush against my face, standing next to the floor to ceiling window, wondering and imagining where she was, what she was doing, who she was killing. I never imagined the actual act, though. I couldn’t seem to bring myself to picture it, as if doing so would somehow violate some sacred separation between who she was, and who I conceived her to be. I knew, had always known, that she was as cold a killer as any in Capital City, perhaps even the world. But I knew her now as only my lover, the kinky, soft spoken blonde paradox who loved a quality evening dress as much as she loved engine grease beneath her nails. So, when I pictured her out to work, I only saw the glamour and romance of the famous Pandora Demour speeding through the city in her tiny green sportster, her perfect hair and long tan scarf waving out behind her.
Tonight, however, something felt different about the whole thing. I had a name, and a face I knew.
Carter Cole.
A “hardcase,” was what Pan had called him. Cole had plenty of blood on his own hands, the only real difference being that, as far as I was aware, he never expressly intended to kill. It was simply a part of his territory. Cole was a killer, not a murderer. Some called it a small, still voice that warned you of a moral dilemma. Mine was not small, nor was it still. I heard the voice of my mother, loud and brassy, the southern twang as clear as the day I left for Capital City. It wasn’t as easy to ignore inside my head as it had been when I was a teenager. I ran away from her judgement, only to find it take root in my brain. It was never a scenario specific tirade, as it had been in person. She only repeated the last thing I had ever heard from her:
“If you want to be a criminal, go to Capital City.”
And I had. And I was.
Now, I pushed the voice of my mother away, and saw a vivid image of Carter Cole, lying in the street, rain beating down on him and washing a crimson river from under his overcoat into the gutter.
Pushing back the curtain, however, I saw that the sky above the constant layer of smog was clear, and the chance of rain tonight would be slim. Still, the vision was stubborn, invasive even, and I knew that the poor bastard didn’t stand a chance.
Pandora Demour wasn’t famous for nothing.
Just as my flashbulb thoughts of glamour and fame were replacing the single shot gore of Carter Cole’s body, a bright green light burst into the sky above the city, followed by blue, then red, then white, all refracting through the Cloud to create a strange, purplish glow that spread and dissipated just above my building. Each explosion fanned out in brilliant flowering displays of smaller explosions, raining down behind the skyscrapers. Only then did I notice how alive Capital City was tonight. It seemed every block, every rooftop and balcony had double, triple and sometimes dozens of skyward spotlights, all spinning and rocking multicolored logos across the Cloud. The traffic below my apartment was always
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