lvckyclover

[lvckyclover]

Prologue: Butterflies

Dragon’s sitting on the porch in the sun, thinking of lighting up a cigarette but also wanting not to spoil the moment. There’s something beautiful about being out here, away from everything and everyone—everyone except Val, of course. Dragon’s never spent much time outside of big cities and airports, and the trees as they sway and the birds as they call feel like something that belongs in a film. Everywhere he looks there’s something beautiful, and it’s unreal.

Two weeks ago, he would have scoffed at the idea that he could find beauty in nature. Two weeks ago feels like a long, lone time.

He decides against the cigarette and stands. There’s a bit of a breeze, one that rustles the leaves and makes the woods seem alive. Of course, they are alive, but—different alive, he guesses. He’s not much of a poet. It must be Val rubbing off on him.

Speaking of…

Dragon looks into the cabin behind him. She said she needed to check one thing and then she’d be back out. The windows have been thrown open in the wake of the heatwave. Even so, it’s not much cooler inside than out, and Dragon can feel himself sweating through his thin shirt.

He stands, peering inside. Val isn’t in there. He frowns and goes around back.

Her legs are sticking out of the back seat of the car, and he can hear her rummaging around as if looking for something.

“Everything okay?” Dragon asks.

If Val’s surprised to hear him, she doesn’t jump.

“Yeah,” she says. Her voice quavers. Dragon comes closer. He’s got a long list of things that might have upset her—there’s Kareem and Tasha, for two, plus the fact that they’re hiding out and it seems like everything’s gone to pieces.

“It’s just,” Val starts, pulling out of the car. She’s got something in her hands—a butterfly, Dragon sees. It’s one of the big yellow ones Dragon’s seen around the area. It isn’t moving.

“It must have gotten stuck in the car,” Val said softly, “and it’s so hot…” There are tears in the corner of her eyes. Dragon wraps an arm around her shoulder as she cups the dead butterfly. He doesn’t ask what she needed to check on in the car, nor does he think it important. Instead, he offers her a squeeze before he lets go.

“Let’s get it somewhere nice, then,” he says. Val stares at him. Dragon looks over his shoulder. “By the one big tree you showed me, maybe. There’s lots of flowers there, right?”

“Yeah,” Val says. She looks down at the little butterfly. “Okay.”

The tree—a big oak, Dragon thinks, but he’s never been so good at identifying anything other than people—isn’t far from the front porch of the little cabin. Val takes the lead and Dragon follows, watching his feet to make sure he doesn’t trip.

“My aunt cleared this area years ago,” Val says when they reach the tree. There are sprigs of tall flowers growing up where the sun makes it through the leaves. “I think she wanted to build her own cabin. Said my uncle snored.”

Dragon smiles but doesn’t say anything. Val kneels at the base of the tree, and he follows suit. He finds a rock and a stick and digs a hole. Val places the butterfly inside of it. Carefully, Dragon covers it.

They sit for along while, eyes closed. Val’s crying. Dragon wants to comfort her, but he also knows that she doesn’t like him to see. All he can do is hold her hand and wait.

“I’m sorry,” Val says finally.

“It’s not your fault,” Dragon replies.

“I know it’s silly,” she continues. “It’s just a butterfly, but…” She clears her throat. “It just hit me.”

Dragon takes that as his cue to pull her closer, and Val comes willingly. She leans into his chest, and he wraps his arms around her. He tries to think of what to say, but nothing comes to mind.

Instead, he stands up.

“There’s a stream around here, right?” he asks.

“Sure, why?”

Dragon scratches the back of his head.

“It’s hot,” he says. “The other butterflies might be thirsty.”

Val smiles. It’s sad and watery, but it’s a smile and it counts.

“Yeah,” she says. “They might be.”

[lvckyclover]

Clover: Southside (IV)

Bee palms her phone and slides it back into her pocket. No missed calls, emails, anything. It’s her work phone, so that’s normal, but she wants anything to distract her from the situation at hand.

The white board on the counter mocks her.

She hasn’t always been like this, and she hates that she knows what it’s like to be able to communicate like a normal person. She remembers how the words used to spill off her tongue regardless of circumstance. Fear? Anger? Anxiety? Joy? Words, words, words, free flowing and easy.

She doesn’t know what changed.

(She does.)

Dragon sits in the living room—him and the robot, who hasn’t come out of the box. Bee doesn’t know if it’s okay or not. It seemed scared, or else damaged somehow. If it is, they’re going to have to figure out what to do. Going to the authorities regarding broken-down or damaged ‘bots is dicey at best and downright riot-provoking at worst, and Bee doesn’t think she or Dragon can handle it.

Dragon. Like the robot in the box, he doesn’t belong here, either. He’s just staring at it, too—the box. Like it’s going to pop open or something.

Bee hit him, out in the street. She hadn’t meant to, but she had. She wants to apologize, but she also doesn’t. Misunderstandings are hard.

She swirls her teabag in her mug one last time before she removes it. She places the portion with the tea in it on a spoon, then wraps the cotton string around and around until she reaches the label. Slowly, deliberately, she presses it over the teabag and squeezes out the rest of the tea. It burns her finger, but she holds it there until it’s only an unsteady drip drip drip.

With nothing left to do, she returns to the living room. Dragon looks at her this time. Progress.

“I was going to take a look,” Dragon says. Bee can see that his coffee cup is empty. “In the box, I mean.”

Bee nods once. It’s a good idea, but one she’s not personally keen on.

Dragon stands and moves to the kitchen. Bee watches him place his used cup in the sink. He stands there for a moment, then turns on the tap.

Bee stares into her tea as she listens to Dragon wash the cup. She can almost hear the slide of the dish soap against the ceramic underneath the gentle scratch of the sponge over the surface.

She takes a sip of her tea. It’s on the weaker side, as she prefers it. She holds her face over the steam and breathes in. Behind her in the kitchen, she can hear Dragon going through the cabinets—open/shut/open/shut/open/shut. He’s not taking anything, just looking. Bee understands when she hears the sound of something being set down in between the open/shut shudder. He’s put the coffee cup away.

Dragon returns to the living room.

“Shall we?” he asks.

Bee nods.

.txt!BASICdisplay::INT (1/4903)

*System startup sequence*

*This fucking code is going to kill me so look, the constants and start-up commands are all on page 25. Do not move them or the code will break. God knows how this is holding together now as it is.*

Start=Loop[SysCheck,Diagnostics,0,1,medial];

If[Start]=0,Then[ptcl9090];

If[Start]=1,Then[Commence];

Start=1; Commence

Commence=[inGAGE_23; 0,Infinity,100];

inGAGE_23[Surroundings,ptcl87,txt89034e];

Display[inGAGE_23]

Surroundings=STP with insignificant deviation; time-data=missing; search[stct//INTSYS]=“weather, local”; ptcl87=FAILURE;

REBOOT

“There’s something wrong with the start-up sequence,” Dragon says. “I can’t make heads or tails of it.”

He’s not expecting Bee to reply, but the silence is a little unnerving. He looks back over his shoulder to see if she’s still there and finds her sipping her tea, watching him. She makes a face and shrugs as if to say hell if I know. Dragon turns back to the robot.

The robot is a very new model, and unless Dragon is sorely mistaken, incredibly expensive. He’s heard talk of these types, and not from the kind of people he considers allies.

After a moment’s consideration, Dragon drags the crate with the robot in it across the floor to sit in front of the coffee table. This way, he can see Bee, if she decides to start signing again. (What’s up with that, anyway? He ought to have read her file more closely. There’s probably something in there.)

Bee looks at the robot for a long moment, arms folded, and sighs. She flexes her fingers, and Dragon watches as she signs, rather slowly, Broken?

“I’m not sure,” Dragon admits. “I think we scared it—the robot, I mean. Don’t know if it’s an it or not.”

Bee’s eyebrows shoot up.

“What?” Dragon asks.

.txt!BASICdisplay::INT (1/4903)

*System startup sequence*

*This fucking code is going to kill me so look, the constants and start-up commands are all on page 25. Do not move them or the code will break. God knows how this is holding together now as it is.*

Start=Loop[SysCheck,Diagnostics,0,1,medial];

If[Start]=0,Then[ptcl9090];

If[Start]=1,Then[Commence];

Start=1; Commence

Commence=[inGAGE_23; 0,Infinity,100];

inGAGE_23[Surroundings,ptcl87,txt89034e];

Display[inGAGE_23]

Surroundings=STP with insignificant deviation; time-data=missing; search[stct//INTSYS]=“weather, local”; ptcl87=FAILURE;

REBOOT

.txt!BASICdisplay::INT (1/4903)

*System startup sequence*

*This fucking code is going to kill me so look, the constants and start-up commands are all on page 25. Do not move them or the code will break. God knows how this is holding together now as it is.*

Start=Loop[SysCheck,Diagnostics,0,1,medial];

If[Start]=0,Then[ptcl9090];

If[Start]=1,Then[Commence];

Start=1; Commence

Commence=[inGAGE_23; 0,Infinity,100];

inGAGE_23[Surroundings,ptcl87,txt89034e];

Display[inGAGE_23]

Surroundings=STP with insignificant deviation; time-data=missing; search[stct//INTSYS]=“weather, local”; ptcl87=FAILURE;

*…..*

OVERRIDE REBOOT

The crate shifts.

Two Humans, one Male, one Female. Location unknown; optical input indicates living room, house. Incongruous with previous optical input indicating dock, port. Conclusion: system failure.

“Hello,” Male says. His voice is low and unknown. Female does not speak. Face files have already been added to the database but appear to be corrupted. No—wrong. Incomplete files. Conclusion: system failure occurred during upload.

“Hell-o,” a voice—proximal, too close to be either Human, says.

Optical sensors down. Metal pieces, humanoid?

“It’s all right,” the Male says, hands up. Comparison: metal humanoid hands, Human hands. Near identical.

Conclusion=????

The Human Female waves. Hypothesis: humanoid limbs attached to CPU. Attempt movement.

A humanoid hand shoots out. The Male jerks backward.

“Right,” he says. “That’s you.”

“Me?” the proximal voice says. Voice attached to…?

“Yes, you,” Male says. “You have a body and a voice. You are a robot.”

Inquiry—Contextualize[robot,current]

Processing…

Processing…

“Robot,” the proximal voice echoes. The process is still running, but for good measure, another:

Inquiry—Contextualize[you,current]

Processing…

Processing…

Processing…

Bee stares at the robot before her. She doesn’t know what to say—what is there to say?

It’s clear, at least to her, that the robot doesn’t have any idea what’s going on. Judging from the few words—there’s no avoiding it—it has spoken, it’s not aware of its own sentience. Bee’s never met a robot who wasn’t already walked through this step, either by its kin or by its manufacturers. Perhaps Dragon has…?

A glance at him reveals that he’s shaking ever so slightly. It’s doubtful.

“Hi,” Bee says. The single syllable leaves her mouth dry, but the robot’s optics fix on her. “My name is Bee.”

“Bee,” the robot intones. The robot’s voice is clearly unfinished; the metallic tones are obvious underneath the simulated human ones. It’s as if someone ran a voice through a synth and called it a day.

“My name is Dragon,” Dragon says helpfully.

“Dragon,” the robot echoes. It’s optics pivot. “Bee.” Bee waves. “Dragon.” Dragon nods.

“Good,” he says. “And robot’s name is…?”

The two Humans—Female designated “Bee” and Male designated “Dragon”—stand, waiting. Contextualization processes have not yet finished, but perhaps, a new string…?

Search[robot,you,0,pst];

Display[Search[results]];

Processing…

Results

“robot”=“you”

The voice—robot’s voice, your voice, my voice, designation mine—speaks.

“TREBLE-1873972-c,” it says.

Marcia—the maintenance woman’s name is Marcia.

It comes to Andy just as he’s helping her down to her room. It’s right across from the laundry facilities. From what he can gather, she’s not supposed to live down there because she’s not a tenant, but something about her working there and being friends with the owner—if Andy is remembering right, which he doubts—gives her this space to herself.

“No hospital,” she says. Her voice is so scratchy, Andy can feel himself getting thirsty. “Please, no hospital.” It’s all Marcia’s said so far. Andy asked why after the first request, but when she didn’t answer, he decided not to press. Better to try to fix her up wherever she’s comfortable than to try to start a fight.

“No hospital, don’t worry,” Andy repeats. “No hospital. Do you have your keys?”

Marcia’s hands are shaking as she reaches into her back pocket and comes up with a key ring loaded with more keys than Andy’s ever seen outside of film.

It takes her a good few tries to get the key into the slot, but when it does, she twists it hard and the door unlocks. Andy pushes her inside.

The cat, the fat ginger thing, comes to greet them, purring and meowing loudly. It startles at the sight of Andy, though, and retreats to a low couch. Andy deposits Marcia there and takes a moment.

He has no idea what to do.

“Water, please,” Marcia says.

Andy rushes to comply. He fills a glass with cool water and returns to her side. Her hands shake too badly to hold the glass, so he supports it for her, keeping it steady as she drinks it down.

He returns the empty glass to the kitchen, then does a quick scan of her space. It’s well below ground, and there are no windows. It’s chilly down here, too, and the cold’s probably not helping.

“Do you have an extra blanket?” Andy asks. “Something I can wrap you in?”

Marcia points towards a closet. Andy finds a knit blanket, something green and blue that looks homemade, and brings it to her. He wraps it around her shoulders and tucks it over her hands so that it’s only her head that’s sticking out.

“Thank you,” Marcia says. “Thank you…”

“You’re welcome, but thank you,” Andy says. He stands awkwardly, unsure of what to do now that he’s exhausted his list of idea-for-what-to-do-for-an-injured-person. “You didn’t tell them I was here.”

Marcia smiles. “Those thugs think they can muscle their way around, punch and kick and threaten until they get their way.” Andy can’t look away from her neck. It’s going to bruise in the shape of hands. His own itch with the need to do something.

“Are you in trouble?” she asks.

Andy shrugs. “They’re Supremacists, came into the Lucky Clover a few days back,” he says. “I reacted badly when I saw their tattoos and they noticed.”

Within her blanket nest, Marcia nods. “They’re getting bolder, the fuckers,” she says.

Andy nearly laughs.

“I’m serious,” she says. “They think they’re God’s gift to the world just because they’ve got all of their original parts, all organic. They’re full of shit.”

“Maybe,” Andy says, “but they hurt you, so full of shit or not they’re going to pay for it.”

“Don’t you go picking fights you can’t win, Andy García,” Marcia says. The way she’s frowning at him tells Andy that she’s fully serious. “You don’t go chasing after those boys.”

“Then I’ll call the police, have them send a COP or something,” Andy says.

“No,” Marcia replies. “They’ll want to talk to me, and I…” She coughs, nearly doubling over. “Christ on a cracker. I don’t want to talk to anyone.”

The question sits on the tip of Andy’s tongue, but he doesn’t voice it. Instead he smiles tightly.

“Okay,” he says. “Okay.”

Marcia stares at him for a long moment, then says, “You’re a good one, Andy. I’m glad you’re here.”

Andy looks at the floor.

“I think,” he says, “my wash is probably done.”

[lvckyclover]

Clover: Southside (III)

Andy’s closing again. He’s starting to think Marcus has something against him because this is the fourth time in so many days.

He’s having a hard time focusing, knowing that Bee’s out doing something dangerous. He doesn’t have her number and she doesn’t have his but that doesn’t stop him from checking his phone every few minutes. He doesn’t know what he’s looking for. A news story? Flashing lights?

“You okay?” Joe asks. He’s mopping in the front, working towards the back. Andy finishes counting their earnings for the day and checks it against the register. Right on the money.

“Yeah,” Andy says. “Just…I don’t know. Tired, I guess.”

“You want to grab a beer after this?” Joe asks. “Nathan and I were gonna get a bite to eat around the corner, maybe have a few. You’re welcome to join us.”

Andy pulls a tight smile—his work smile, he knows. He wonders if Joe can tell the difference.

“Thanks for the offer,” Andy says, “but I’ve gotta get home. You know.”

Joe nods and continues to swab the floor. The back and forth of the mop against the floor, the soap and the suds and the water, fills Andy’s ears.

He hopes—prays—that Bee’s okay.

The walk home isn’t too long, and it’s still mostly daylight. Traffic’s pretty bad, and Andy’s glad he’s not saddled with a car.

A girl on a red bicycle sails past, nearly clipping him. Her hair’s loose, and Andy thinks for just a moment that she’s pretty. She’s gone before he can think any more about it.

Andy likes to watch people on his walks to and from work. He’d do it when heading to the store, too, but he rides his own bicycle then because it’s farther away than the café, and it’s too hard watching traffic and people at the same time. As a pedestrian, though, he’s got more time. He can make up stories for the people he passes, the people he sees every day. There’s the guy that has the kebab stand set up on the corner two blocks down; invariably, he’s hawking his wares around this time. There’s the homeless individual who Andy always gives some of his tip money to if he spots them. There’s the woman who runs the walk-in clinic who likes to have an evening smoke. Sometimes, she has odd jobs for Andy to do; more often, she just stares past him at something invisible, eyes unblinking.

Andy pulls his jacket tight around his middle and quickens his pace. It’s getting chilly now. He reaches for his keys as he climbs the stairs to his building and quickly enters.

Four flights of stairs down the hall and around the corner, and Andy’s safely back in his apartment. It smells like lemon and chlorine. He almost doesn’t want to open the windows to get a breeze.

He discards his uniform shortly thereafter. His apron with his name tag stays at work, but the rest of the uniform—white starched shirt, green bowtie, black slacks—he has to maintain. He glances at his closet as he slips on something more comfortable. He doesn’t have any other white shirts pressed; he’ll need to do laundry.

Andy gathers together his dirty clothes and the laundry detergent. No time like the present, he supposes.

There are four Humans—two unconscious, two conscious; three Male, one Female. None are in the databanks.

File - Save - Identity - Face

Name?

Designation: ??

Two question marks. One for name and one for surname. Middle name? Unimportant at the present moment.

“Shit,” Female says. Her pupils shrink—fear response? Shock, that is the term.

“That’s…” Male says. Female takes his hand to assist in pulling him off of the ground. Male stands poorly—lack of balance.

“Are you all right?” Male asks. “You…”

Definition - “all right”; coupled-search: “systems check”;

“Yes,” Someone says. Someone—identity unknown—neither Male nor Female—

“Hey, stay with us,” Male says. He reaches forward, towards…

A groan—neither Male nor Female. Location = proximal, sensors indicate a distance approaching 0.0001 meters away…

“Hey,” Male says again. Sensory input overload—sensory input—

A scream. Not Human.

Robot.

There are six washers and dryers down in the basement, all in relatively pristine condition. Andy’s only ever seen one other person down there, the kindly old lady who cleans the halls and stairwells. She introduced herself once, but Andy missed her name. He does remember that she has a cat, though, a fat ginger thing that would rather befriend mice than eat them.

Andy heads to the fourth washer down from the end and tosses in his clothes. Detergent goes in next, and he sets the cycle. Cold water wash, gentle. He’s getting paid, sure, but if the washing machine ruins his clothes, he’s going to be SOL for the foreseeable future.

He’s halfway up the stairs when he hears the voices.

“Scrawny guy, works at the Lucky Clover,” a man’s saying. Andy freezes on the stairwell. “You seen him around here?”

“Why?” a woman’s voice shoots back. The maintenance woman with the cat.

“We just want to talk,” the man says.

“We’re friends of his,” a second man chimes in. “Just wanted to see how he was doing.”

“If he’s your friend, you can call him,” the maintenance woman says. “I’ve got work to do.”

“Hey,” the second man says, voice sharp sharply. Andy doesn’t hear anything for a moment.

“Thank you for your time,” the first man says. “We’ll be seeing you.”

“You come back here and I’m calling the police,” the maintenance woman shouts. Her voice is hoarse, and Andy feels himself shaking. “You get out!”

As soon as he’s sure he can’t hear either of the two men anymore, Andy’s bolting up the stairs. His body’s screaming for him to wait, wait, wait, but he can’t. His pulse is in his ears beating out of tune with the low, fading thrum of the washer, and then he’s got a hand on the door knob to the lobby.

The maintenance woman is leaning against the wall, crying. Her neck is red and she’s shaking.

“Hey there, Andy,” she says, voice hoarse and broken.

Bee’s got a safe house not too far from Southside, though lugging the crate with the robot still in it’s playing hell on Dragon’s limbs. He didn’t come prepared for this sort of heavy lifting, but he wasn’t about to leave the robot behind. He can’t imagine the kind of people who’d put a person, even a mechanical one, into a box and—what? Transport…them? The robot seemed sensitive, possibly recently reformatted.

The thought has Dragon’s blood boiling.

Bee walks ahead of him, hands shoved into her pockets, head down. She hasn’t said a single word since they lost sight of the docks and it’s starting to piss him off.

“Hey,” he calls to her, “where the hell are we going?”

Bee doesn’t answer. Dragon curses.

“For fuck’s sake,” he says, “at least say something.”

Bee doesn’t speak. Only the knowledge that there’s a person inside the crate, someone who needs help and needs to be in a safe place in order to get that help, keeps him in check.

“I can’t carry this thing for fucking ever,” Dragon says. “If you don’t tell me where we’re going…” He doesn’t have a threat, not really, but it stops Bee.

She turns, and he watches her clench and unclench her fists. She makes an aborted attempt at a sign, and Dragon wants to scream.

“We’re in the clear,” he says. “Can’t you talk, you know, like a normal person?”

In retrospect, he ought to have seen the slap coming.

Dragon’s cheek stings, but he’s not carrying anything anymore, and he guesses that evens out. Bee’s safe house is an apartment, sparely furnished but still comfortable in a way that puts Dragon on edge. It’s almost as if, he thinks, someone lives here, which is ridiculous. No one lives in a safe house except in cases of emergencies. That’s the point.

Bee still hasn’t spoken. Dragon doesn’t know if it’s willful or something else at this point, but he saw the tears in her eyes on the street and immediately felt like an idiot. He’s not going to press the matter, not now.

“So,” he says, looking at his hands. He’s sitting on a low couch, one that’s a little bit too firm for his tastes and covered in something gross—suede, he thinks. Who uses suede anymore? The crate with the robot is sitting by the door, still and silent.

Two knocks, and Dragon’s looking around, wary. He catches sight of Bee waving slightly. She holds up a white board. Coffee or tea? is written in lopsided blue.

“Coffee,” Dragon says. “Please.”

Bee nods and turns back to her work in the kitchen.

Dragon stands and immediately regrets it. His leg burns, and so does his arm. He glances at Bee. She’s not looking. He could do it, but…no. Better that they don’t know too much about each other.

In the kitchen, Bee has a coffee maker—a nice one, Dragon sees, one of those Nuria Capresso machines. He hasn’t seen one since he was in Rome on a job, and it was the best damn cup of coffee he’d ever had. Beside it is an electric kettle, plain and simple, except—there’s a sticky note attached to it.

Be nice to me! There’s a little heart drawn next to the exclamation point. If Dragon’s not mistaken, there’s a smiley face there, too.

The coffee’s finished before the water in the kettle has come to a boil, and Bee ventures out to where Dragon sits with a cup.

“Thank you,” Dragon says. “I’m sorry.”

Bee tilts her head.

“I shouldn’t have said that,” he says. “I’m sorry.”

Bee shrugs. She’s got that whiteboard in her lap, and she erases what she’s written with her sleeve. She writes, I know someone who can help the bot.

Dragon sits up straight.

“Who?” he asks.

Bee glances at the door, worrying her lip. She sets the whiteboard down and starts moving her hands. It’s jerky and panicked and Dragon puts up his hands.

“It’s okay,” he says. “You can write it. It’s fine.”

He doesn’t actually know if it’s fine—he has no idea what in seven blue hells is going on, actually—but he figures that Bee’s supposed to be his partner until the boss says otherwise, so he might as well roll with it.

Bee picks up the whiteboard and scribbles quickly.

[lvckyclover]

Clover: Southside (II)

Bee doesn’t know what time they have to be Southside to make the drop. Dragon catches her eyeing up an ice cream parlor and he himself catches a whiff of coffee that smells like someone distilled heaven and made a drink out of it, but they don’t stop. Can’t afford to lose even a second with this stuff, and Dragon’s not getting paid to to find the best brew in town. Better to try to track it down later, when he’s gotten his dues and a little break before he’s sent out again.

They walk, and Dragon wishes they’d gotten a cab. His left leg is screaming and he’s got a stitch in his side, both of which have put him in a foul mood. A cab’d be conspicuous, though, and the last thing he needs is recognition.

“OK?” Bee asks. She’s a few steps ahead of him and doesn’t bother turning around. Dragon wonders if she can hear his footfalls, how he’s started to limp.

“Yeah,” he says. “I’m fine.”

“Rest?”

“No.”

Bee hums and doesn’t bring it up again.

The pavement grows uneven as they make their way down. Dragon tries not to step on the cracks for as long as he can, but eventually the cement grows so spiderwebbed that it’s impossible to avoid.

So superstitious, Val told him once—over cake, he remembers. He’d baked it himself. He doesn’t remember why.

Her comment hadn’t had anything to do with the cake. They’d been talking about something. It had probably been Dragon’s problems with mirrors. Maybe ladders. Or, no—dates. Definitely dates. Dragon’s always had a problem with certain dates, certain numbers. Most people, he’d told her, they’ve got a problem with three o’clock, say it’s the evil hour, but he knew better. Four in the morning was when the Devil rose.

Overnight assignments had always been hard for him because of that.

He hadn’t told Val that, of course. He hadn’t been doing this back then.

But she’d been the one to ask him about four in the afternoon, and once he got started thinking about it, he hadn’t been able to stop. Sixteen-hundred hours, four fours is sixteen. The true hour of evil. As soon as Val had pointed it out, he’d known he’d been stuck. From then on, it wasn’t going to matter how cheerful people might be as they got out of work or anything else; nothing good could come about at four in the afternoon.

It’s been years, now—years of hard nights and even harder afternoons. He wishes, sometimes, he could take that conversation back, but it’s Val there in his memories. To lose that would be bad.

Now, though: now, the sun’s starting to dip behind the buildings. Dragon’s side aches. Bee’s still walking at exactly the same pace, her hands shoved in her pockets like she intends to tear her jacket off of her shoulders. They’re coming up on that horrible hour now, and he’s getting fidgety. Between the walking and the time and the pavement, he thinks he might strangle the next person who so much as looks at him.

Maybe the universe knows it, too, because soon enough, there’s no one on the street. They’re nearing the edge of Southside now, close to the docks. Southside’s nothing more than the sweep along the harbor, extending only a few blocks into town before civilization beats it back. The contrast is a stark one. Most of the rowhouses down this way are boarded up or dark. All of the buildings are meant to be residential, but they’re so broken down they might as well be ruins. Squatters live there now—squatters and others who don’t want to be found. A recent sweep cleaned up the auto junkies that’d taken up residence, but Dragon suspects most of them managed to avoid detection. He imagines he can sense them behind the papered-over windows, watching, waiting.

“There,” Bee says. She doesn’t point, but she doesn’t have to. They’re coming up on the docks now. Enormous metal crates are stacked three or four high up ahead, where the houses end and the warehouses begin. There’s not much difference except in the builder’s original intentions. No doubt there’re as many junkies stuck up in those rafters as there are in the wrecks that pass for housing.

“Split up?” she asks.

“Hell no,” Dragon says. “We’re a team.”

Bee snorts and doesn’t offer any complaint. When he smells strawberry, he realizes she’s still chewing gum.

“Spit that out,” he says.

Bee turns and looks him dead in the eye as she swallows.

“Fine. Do what you want.”

Bee looks back toward the docks and says, “Voices.”

Dragon strains his ears; he can’t hear anything. Bee’s walking, though, so there’s not much he can do other than follow.

The crates make something of a maze before they even hit the quay, but they also channel sound quite well. Dragon hears the voices Bee’s following before long.

“—ou sure about this?” Male, middle-aged, panting—tired. Dragon stills as his listens. Across from him, Bee’s leaning against a crate, eyes closed. “We better wait for the other guys.”

“They’re not here yet, they ain’t coming,” another man, voice deeper, not nearly so out of breath, responds. “We gotta move it before James’ boys show up later.”

James. They’re here for James. If he’s not here by now, Dragon thinks, who are these guys?

“Fucking James,” the first says. “You mean we gotta get this all of the way uptown? In daylight?”

“Unless you got a better idea.”

“It’s heavy, you fuck. Didn’t you say you had a couple of guys?”

A snort, and then, “Pussy.”

“The fuck did you call me?”

“You heard me.”

Bee pulls her hands out of her pockets and moves them rapidly in front of her. He can’t respond quite so quickly, but there isn’t much he needs to say other than yes.

A nod, and Dragon peers around the corner. Clear in three directions, no visual on the two guys—assuming it’s only them. Bee picks a path and Dragon follows. They go through the same procedure at each corner: Dragon does a quick check, Bee picks their route, on and on until they can hear the water almost as loud as the men fighting.

Bee signs slower as they get closer; she wants him to get this, Dragon understands. The fact that she knows he can’t read as quickly as she can smarts, but that’s not a right-now problem.

He feels in his coat. He’s carrying a full kit, so he’s set. Bee, on the other hand…push comes to shove, Dragon’ll take the pair by himself. Besides, he thinks, stretching his legs, he’s got an ace up his sleeve. The element of surprise always works best.

Bee’s not sure why Dragon rushes the two goons like a linebacker yelling bloody murder all the while, but it is effective. He must pack one hell of a punch because the smaller one’s down faster than you can bat an eye. The bigger one doesn’t seem to know when to quit, though, because he keeps trying to get in hits—or, he is getting in hits, but it doesn’t look like Dragon’s feeling them.

Bee hangs back, watching. Better to let him take care of these two. No reason to get involved in the fracas if she doesn’t have to.

It’s over in less time than it took to make the way through the shipping crates. Bee checks their surroundings as Dragon stands over the one guy and wipes his nose with the back of his hand. The sun’s setting over the water; their timing could have been better. It’s hard to see for all of the glare, and that includes quayside. On the plus side, that makes it harder for anyone to see them. Still, there’re all kinds of eyes around these parts, and not all of them shy away from sun glare.

“What?” Dragon asks. He sounds funny—one of the guys must have landed a hit to his face.

Bee does one last look at their perimeter. No cameras that she can spot—makes sense, given the activity they’ve just come across. She doesn’t see the telltale green glare of a COP, either. She guesses they’re in the clear.

“Anything?” Bee asks.

Dragon looks around. There are a bunch of crates around the area, some open, most of them a good bit smaller than the big ones further in.

Bee pries the lid off of one and Dragon steps toward an open one to check the contents.

Bee feels her heart sink at almost the same moment that Dragon screams.

There’s no polite way to describe it except as a sound of true, gut-wrenching fear. It isn’t manly (or girly, for that matter) and it’s not subtle. It is, however, loud. Bee reacts all at once.

She’s at Dragon’s side as he falls backwards, landing on his hands and elbows and butt. There’s something in the crate, something large and moving and—

“Shit,” Bee curses.

[lvckyclover]

Clover: Southside (I)

Across the street from the Lucky Clover Café, Dragon stands on the street corner and smokes a cigarette. He breathes in deeply, the tobacco hitting the back of his throat hard, and exhales through his nose. Val used to tell him he looked like a dragon when he smoked like that—“like those cartoon dragons, you know? The ones that breathe fire?” she said, her eyes sparkling under the lights strung up over the balcony they’d found themselves on. They had been at a party. He’d gone to parties back then: he drank cheap beer and played stupid games and generally made an ass of himself just like the rest of them.

It’d been a long time since that night, but the nickname stuck. His new partners still call him it, Dragon. It’s because they don’t know his name, but he figures it counts.

Through the glass front of the Lucky Clover Café, Dragon can see Bee talking to a guy behind the counter. She’s more at ease with strangers than she is around him, he’s noticed, not that that’s saying much. He doesn’t know if “Bee” is meant to be a letter or a nickname or her actual name, but it’s the most he could get out of her when they were paired up. Hell, he’s lucky if he can get her to say more than one syllable at a time.

In the café, Bee smiles—false, Dragon guesses, not that he’s seen a true one on her face to know the difference—and thanks the fellow behind the counter. Then she’s out, making her way across the street, her face going blank as she comes to his side.

“Yeah?” he asks. Bee makes a sound that might be a question and fishes through her jacket pockets. She comes out with a bent stick of bubble gum which she unwraps carefully.

“What’d he say?” Dragon prods.

Bee shrugs her shoulders and says, “Southside.”

Dragon frowns and looks down the street. There’re plenty of people around, and it’s not late in the day by any stretch of the imagination, but still. He doesn’t like Southside.

Bee pops her gum, and Dragon smells strawberry.

“Ready?” she asks. She shoves the wrapper back in her pocket and keeps her hand there.

Dragon sighs. He doesn’t have enough cigarette left to properly smash against the pavement, but he does it anyway. He grinds the butt into the pavement with more force than he absolutely has to. Bee makes a disapproving noise, but he feels better, and that’s what counts, isn’t it?

“Let’s go,” he says. Bee glares but dutifully starts down the street.

The man behind the counter at the Lucky Clover Café is watching them through the glass. Dragon flashes him a peace sign and sets off after his partner.

There’s a jukebox in the corner that someone’s rigged up to play We Are The Champions, and it’s making it hard to concentrate. Andy knows it, too. That’s why he’s looking Bee squarely in the eyes, trying to keep her attention.

“Hey,” Andy says. “Still with me?”

Bee nods. She’s trying—trying so hard. Normally, they’d go around back to have this conversation. She likes the alley behind the café because it’s relatively clean and quiet, even if it smells, but she has to stay in Dragon’s line of sight. He doesn’t know Andy, and Bee doesn’t want to introduce them.

“Yeah,” she says. “Tips?”

“Heard something the other day,” Andy says. “Couple of dudes came in, built like brick shithouses and definitely packing. They were talking about something up southside.”

“Southside?” Bee asks. She doesn’t need to prod Andy to tell her anything, but she knows he likes it when it’s clear she’s invested in the conversation. He hasn’t lost her. She’s making progress.

“Southside,” Andy confirms. “Something about needing to hire a few more guys by Thursday.”

Today is Thursday. Bee nods.

“Thanks,” she says.

“Other than that, it’s been quiet,” Andy says, “and you know as well as I do that that means the shit’s about to hit the fan. You got a place to lay low?”

Bee shrugs. She doesn’t need one, not really. People tend not to notice her unless she wants them to.

“What about your partner?” Andy asks. Bee tilts her head. “The ghost across the street.”

“Guard dog,” Bee replies. “Dragon.”

“Dragon?”

“Nickname.”

Andy wrinkles his nose. Bee likes when he does that, and she smiles. It’s hard not to smile around Andy. He’s a lot like the candyfloss he used to spin at local fairs before he got this gig. There’s not a lot to him, but damn it all if he isn’t sweet.

“Watch yourself,” Andy says. “Call me if anything goes wrong.”

Bee nods one more time and heads out of the café. The music fades slowly and then all at once as the door swings shut behind her. Her head feels clearer, at least for a few seconds. As soon as she sees Dragon smoking, her mood sours. Doesn’t he know she’s trying to quit?

She pulls out a piece of gum and starts chewing hard, her hands clenching in her pockets.

“Yeah?” he asks. He’s got that smoker’s voice, all gravel and gross. It grates against her ears worse than the music did. “What did he say?”

“Southside,” Bee says carefully, speaking around the gum. Dragon scowls, and Bee sort of wants to slap him. To be fair, that’s par for the course for her, but Dragon’s an especially difficult person to work with. He’s relentlessly gloomy. Here they’ve got a cushy, easy job for once and he’s pouting like they’ve got to slog through the trenches, High Street Palmero-style.

Just to be contrary, and because she doesn’t know if Dragon intends to so much as blink ever again, Bee pops her gum as loudly as she can. Dragon startles, and it’s all she can do not to laugh. She’s a professional; no need to be overly emotional on the job.

“Ready?” she asks. It occurs to her as she asks that she’s still holding the gum wrapper; she pushes it back into her pocket. Dragon tosses his cigarette to the ground and scrapes it against the pavement with the sole of his shoe. Bee winces, the sound sending a chill up her spine. How does that not bother him? It’s so loud.

“Let’s go,” Dragon says. His heart, if he has one, isn’t in it. Fine, Bee thinks. She heads off down the street, hands in her pockets. By the end of the night, she’s going to be several thousand richer, and if she pockets some of the wares for herself?

She’d whistle a happy tune, if she weren’t on the job.

“Everything all right?”

Andy turns, guessing whoever’s speaking is talking to him. He isn’t wrong; it’s Joe, calling over the partition from the kitchen. Joe’s a good guy—new. He hasn’t seen Bee come around, and that’s probably for the best. Andy’s not protective of her, but he does know that her work depends on a certain degree of anonymity.

“Everything’s fine,” he replies. “Old girlfriend.” He picks up a rag from under the counter and starts wiping off the spot where Bee’d been. He doesn’t like the look of the fellow she’d been with, but he rarely has in the past. He guesses it’s better, having a big guy with Bee. Creep deterrent.

He adjusts his cap and wipes at the counter with a little more force. He’s got work to do; can’t be worrying about Bee, or about anyone other than himself, but he can’t help but wonder if the two guys who’d come in on Sunday would be down Southside today. He hopes not. They were big, twice his size at the very least. Andy’s never thought of himself as a big man, but they made him feel like an ant.

They were clean-shaven, Andy remembered, and built like lumberjacks. One of them had worn his sleeves rolled up to his elbow to reveal a tattoo on one arm: 1:115:87. The sight of it had Andy stuttering, and Mandy had taken over the table for him.

She’d told him, after, what they’d said.

“They thought you were one of them,” she whispered. They were closing up, Andy mopping the floor to a shine, Mandy putting up the chairs.

“Them?” Andy asked, playing dumb. He knew damn well what she was on about.

“You don’t know?” Mandy asked. “Their tattoos—Human Supremacists. They thought you were a cyborg or a robot or something. Kept making sparking wire jokes.”

“They don’t make robots like that anymore,” Andy shot back, before he could contain himself.

“I’m just saying,” Mandy said, “you gotta learn to recognize those guys, because if you react like that? They’re gonna assume the worst and make you pay.”

The worst? Andy had wanted to ask. He hadn’t, though. He likes Mandy. He doesn’t want to know what she thinks of them, as she had referred to nearly one third of the population. As it stands, he can assume that she’s like-minded and rational about these sorts of things.

A chime of the door, and Andy looks up. It’s a pair of regulars, a girl and her mother. Andy greets him with a smile.

The show must go on.

Dark.

It is. Dark.

Calculating wavelength of radiation…

No. No calculation. Wavelength = irrelevant. Humans do not measure wavelength.

Correction: they measure wavelength, but not to determine Dark. Dark is determined through Intuition. Intuition = ????

Four question marks, no more, no less.

Classification[Intuition]=????;

No. Not Right, either.

Negative change in velocity detected.

Yes—both Intuition (????) and calculation can confirm: Dark is slowing down at an approximate rate of 30 km/s. Approximate because the rate is observed to fluctuate approaching 0 km/s.

Full stop. Sounds (sorting databank…identification as footsteps, Human, and voices, Human, Male).

An unidentified sound, loud and jarring (observation: how does “jarring” feel?) and Dark becomes Light.