It starts with her feet, tiny steps as she caresses the walls. She sniffs the air and the warm, inviting stench of blood and bread compels her to stay but she knows she probably shouldn’t. Whoever shot her was most likely going to realise she was still alive soon enough and she tried to craft together some thoughtless memories; of tall handsome men and women standing over her unseen and of a burst of music in her eyes. Someone had obviously gone through her possessions but left enough to make sure she could safely walk out unnoticed. Well, kinda.
It starts with her feet, tiny steps as she gently lowers herself on the cold steps outside because they took her boots and her toes glow sundry pink in the shroud of the fading neon sign outside, labelled “carrion house! come for the food, stay for the service!” She doesn’t notice the lack of capitalised letters.
It starts with her feet, tiny steps as she dances across the still street with its still air and wonders where the sky’s at but her stomach starts leaking again. She casts a glance or two, peering for a bandage of sorts but there’s nothing but dry oil and flash cars lining the streets and the rain avoids her head. She can hear the bird songs.
It starts with her feet, tiny steps as she’s getting light-headed and starts looking for shelter or transport to her secret Underground Hideaway but the tube train’s on strike again and there isn’t a direct line anyway – she hates changing lines, she thinks.
It starts with her feet, tiny steps as she smashes the window of a GT but the siren sparks and she screams – its too loud – it infuriates her stomach and her pancreas shudders and falls. She tries to pick it back up but she isn’t used to the touch and repels. There isn’t any time to try again, the owner forces out and flees his way to his shiny baby, pulling a dusty gun and aiming square at her feet before noticing her broken body and flights away with a roar with his wee babe. She leaves it for dogs to eat.
It starts with her feet, tiny steps as she can’t quite grasp real or her thoughts, she thinks and worries. It ain’t normal, even for us, thinking like this and having a significant hole in your stomach but it’s happened. She sinks back to the grey and starts walking back to their Underground Hideaway instead.

Bryant was crying disturbingly loudly in the back of the Celica, Vixen was a vicious driver and steadily streamed through the traffic and gleefully lined the side of a copper with the backend, she hated the force of law, they just got in the way of her business. She wasn’t sure why she was driving so vibrantly; they sure as sure couldn’t use the attention for anything and with armed men waiting out for them it could quite be a mistake but she wanted to draw them out. She didn’t have any leads besides what Bryant had informed and had lost Siren for a shot in the blind and, business is business, had to start her next assignment.
‘Its like being back in school, but more patronising.’
‘Yeah but you couldn’t get away with wearing dresses like that back then.’
The car slipped through the alleyways like drunken fish and careened into a novel collection of cardboard boxes that split and cascaded. She turned back, eyes on fire and a mind set on some killing. She was angry, furious and lost.
‘… what now?’
‘Well, “The Boss” wanted to see both of you. Supposing either you go look for your partner in crime or you see him on your own. You need leads, you haven’t got none.’ He started sweating for some reason. He was either hiding something or deeply afraid of the torrential girl sat in front. She’s still so young, he thinks once in a time, so young to start a murder business.
You want leads, you go to an informant. Someone stupid or constantly drunk enough to sell information about other people. The only thing protecting them from men and women with grudges and guns is that their usefulness outweighs how impossibly dangerous they can be. They’re all crazy, like a lot of people in town, and they’re difficult to find. But there aren’t options for many people and for all her girl-power strength and explosive weaponry, she’d run square out of options.

John the Musical Universe, on the other hand, was box crazy but full of options. At the moment, he was untying the knots on Siren’s boots before peeling away at the sole and offering it to the oncoming train. He stands on the tracks and it impacts his face before crushing his nose and shattering his eyeballs. His skull remains intact, bizarrely but his brain has disintegrated and powdered down to a fine ooze. The train gleefully accepts the sole of the boot, however, and continues surging through the shallow shade with a slap of plastic’y leather strapped to the front. The Musical Universe’s top hat is ripped by the front and his coat is now dirty and broken.
He stands, right arm smashed into three and eyes not yet recovered but his arm is bleeding and the needle won’t leave. He wants to think he’s doped up and dying but he isn’t really, he’s in a cafe playing Spy and sights a meet ‘tween folk not long for the day and judges them. He’s angry because supposed to be doped on pearls by now!
‘Keep ta windows, pillock, you don’t wanna meet in unsight with stranger. Stranger could kill with thought and metal mind and he’s not trusted folk to say “let’s meet away from folk who see”, hic, street kid children playing games they ain’t got no metal mind to, gotta have metal mind, gotta have mind unfazed by stuff! Stuff’ll kill, if you know! Gotta know!’
He can’t hear what they’re saying but knows everything because he’s like that and follows them outside before discreetly groping for his trumpet, a sense of security because he saw the sniper he recognises as having no proper Secret and laughs loudly on drink and severe drugs. They look a business and move away on their lonesome in flash and noise, even X follows. ‘sides his trumpet, John the Musical Universe ain’t got no flash or noise, just a broke put-put to creep into the deep. He kicks the back and she purrs with a smoker’s cough ‘fore put-putting her readiness.
‘I ain’t followin’! I ain’t even a’pposed to be here! I gotta keep looksee out on the wee sweets, they’coulda be lost without John’s music. And I lost my music when I don’t got my pearls. Gotta take my pearls, gotta find the sweets, gotta make sure they don’t find ‘ch’other, gotta keep them from form work.’