Hannagan took her cloak off and swung it over a chair back, then rested a
hand upon it. From above the rim of her sunglasses, ruby-colored eyes floated
about as she took in the scene. It was just an empty in a nondescript sort of
way, lacking in any kind of personality that she could see. With the hand that held her long cigarette,
she pushed her glasses back in place, fit the cigarette in her mouth, and a
flare preceded the smoke she quickly pulled into her lungs. She pushed her
long, cherry red hair out of her face, relishing in the first, smooth drag she’d
had all day. “What comes after, the chick or the smell of rot,” She sang in an
under-breath as she exhaled. If nobody was expected back at the office, then
nobody would mind if she lit up. Not that she was really considering caring
about what any of the occupants of the building felt. She, after all, was among
those who wanted them dead. And if not dead, than she’d settle for really, really
gone.
However, this would require that somebody be home.
“Wince,” She called in her high
contralto. A heartbeat or two passed before she heard the soft flack of
Winston’s patent leather shoes on the cheap linoleum. She closed her eyes and
sucked on her cigarette. He walked into the room like a small whirlwind, his
own dark cloak billowing about his ankles as he stopped before her, removing
his fedora. From the tone of his stance, she knew he had found much of the same
as she.
“Nothing.” He told her. Hannagan
blew the smoke above his head, which was about a foot below her own. She was
not a short woman, nor was he a tall man.
“They must have known we were
coming, then.” She finally said.
He sighed. “I think they had
known for a while. I don’t feel any warmth from this place at all.”
“And the lack of pictures makes
it all so drab and dull, I don’t know why we left our party for this wreck.”
Through her glasses, Hannagan checked his expression. His face was a bore.
“Yet, I was so sure we had found
them.” He said quietly.
“It was a stupid lead, and we
both knew it.” She scolded. He didn’t take the bait.
“Well, we’ll have to burn that
source. He must have known what we were after…”
“Like I said, Wince, that guy
didn’t have brains of his own.
“We couldn’t have stopped them,
anyway. There were too many.” He conceded.
“Don’t say that!” Hannagan
reprimanded. “Don’t underestimate us like that.”
“I’m not underestimating, I’m
being realistic. This isn’t a battle we would have strolled through.”
“But that doesn’t mean we
couldn’t have beat them.”
“In an office building? I thought
the plan was to get them to a park.”
“Yes, but you said, ‘the element of
surprise is indispensable..’”
“And it is, when there are people
for whom the surprise is intended.”
“So why would our boy lead us
astray, I wonder.” Hannagan switched gears, taking a stroll about the room and
lighting another cigarette. Winston ignored the way she curved as she walked.
“He could have been one of two things: a) too scared of them to give us real
information, or b) another memory-altered idiot planted there to give us
misinformation.”
“Perhaps it’s all a trap, Hanny.
Have you considered that this all may be an elaborate trap?”
“You’d smell a trap, Wince.” She cooed, and
touched his nose. “Don’t put yourself down like that. And quit being paranoid;
it’s unnatractive on you.”
Winston fixed his eyes on the
gray, moldy carpet in an effort to hide the reddening of his cheeks. Hannagan
let him think that he had succeeded. He was so cute when he tried to hide
things from her.
“What I find strangest is that
this address just happens to be
unused.”
“But it isn’t unused, Hanny,
there’s furniture. And machines—even telephone lines.” Winston held up a phone
chord as proof.
“But no evidence of people. Tell me: have you seen any
refrigerators? Any water coolers? Anything that would indicate that people might work here for stretches of
time in a day?”
“Hm. Yes. And you’ve already
pointed out the lack of personal effects.”
“I thank you.”
“But what do you think it means?”
Winston’s opalescent eyes begged hers.
“I don’t know, I’m only saying that it’s strange to make an
office and then not put people in it.”
“You’re right, it just doesn’t
make any sense.”
“And why would it? It’s not like
these people get off on giving us the run-around or anything.”
“Quite right.”
“You know, I’m starting to think
this place isn’t as dead as an end as we were thinking.”
“I’m starting to feel that, too.”
“Right. So it isn’t just me?”
“Well, the point isn’t what might
have been, the point is that they’ve already left.”
“But they haven’t won, ye—”
“Hanny, they might as well have,
this was supposed to be our last chance!” Winston’s opalescent eyes, as they
glared up at her, harbored hints of orange. Hannagan knew what orange meant,
and she paused for a few draughts to ponder on it. He gave her her silence,
during which he sighed and dropped his eyes away, resolving to glare at the
open door he had come through. This left Hannagan staring at the side brim of
his hat, where a bit of ash had fallen. She reached her hand out to brush it
off, and Winston’s arm whipped around reflexively to block her. She grabbed the
rouge hand, all but biting back her power to keep from burning him. They locked
eyes, surprised. His were wide, but back to their normal pearlescense.
“I’m sorry, Han, I—“ he tried to
get his arm back from her, but her grip held firm and hot. Her glasses had
slipped off the bridge of her nose. Her eyes were glazed over, and he knew he
was in trouble.
“Hannagan.” He breathed, hoping
her name might bring her back. But he knew the signs—the forgotten cigarette on
the office floor, the labored breathing, all together with the eyes—she was
about to have another vision.
Either a vision, or an aneurysm.
Winston swallowed back the bad
taste in his mouth, and attempted to steady her tall frame with his free arm.
Meanwhile, the pain in the arm she held was becoming harder to bear with a
straight face. Even though Winston knew she wasn’t aware of him in this state,
he still wouln’t give her the knowledge of his pain. This was soon to become a
futile effort.
Hannagan cried out
unintelligibly—it was a guttural sound. Her other hand clenched the material of her dress at her
stomach, the black and glittering cloth shook as her hand trembled there. This
was followed by several sharp intakes of breath, and a final, tortured moan.
Winston felt her sway on her feet, and tried to bend her to the ground before
she took them both for a tumble. With her next, labored breath, her knees
buckled, and she fell with him onto the hard linoleum.
“Hannagan!” came Winston’s yelp, but it fell again on deaf ears.
