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“Move along, citizen,” one of the Grays orders.
“Bullshit!” someone else shouts. A bottle smashes on the ground near the officers. “Fuck you, tinmen!”
“Get her in.”
“Slag you…” I hiss, resisting as the Watchmen try to push me into the back of the jail wagon. I feel like a child throwing a tantrum. My face has gone numb. One of them pulls out a stunbaton.
“Get in with your pants pissed. Or get in without your pants pissed. Comply, citizen.”
Flinching, I step up into the bed of the flier and let them push me into a seat between a ragged old Pink with chattering black teeth and a drunk Obsidian with vomit and blood on his flashy racing jacket. My shackles clank as the magnetics lock me into my seat. A deep animal fear rises up in me. I tug at the shackles. “Please. Please don’t…” There’s shouts now outside. The sound of sirens and more bottles breaking.
“Officers,” someone says on the street before they shut the doors. A slim Gray man in an overcoat approaches them. He has a forked goatee and a bad limp in his right leg.
“I’m afraid there’s been a mistake,” he says. “That girl’s a friend of mine.”
“The pickpocket?” the older Watchman asks, glancing at the gathering crowd.
“That’s a ripper!” The stranger laughs. “If she’s a pickpocket, I’m a worlds-renowned art thief! Known her family going on eight years. We were out for a day on the town. To take in the sights. First stop was the Liberty Wing, then Hero Center—tedious, I know. Wanted to show her a bit of my past. Make sure this flashy new generation knows the sacrifices our kin made back in the day.”
“Your past?” the old Watchman says. “Were you a Son?”
The man shrugs as if embarrassed. “We all do our part. Worked the Watch first.” The massive Obsidian beside me snorts phlegm out of the bowels of his nose and spits it at my feet. His cracked teeth smile at me and he whispers something in a language I don’t understand. His breath smells like a Flush tube. Meanwhile, the Grays rattle at each other in military lingo while I watch on, utterly lost.
“What cohort?” one of the Watchmen asks.
“Cohors XV.”
“Serenia Center?”
“Crater town itself.”
One of the men whistles. “A smokejack in the flesh.”
“Then you were a first responder….”
“So they say.”
“Was there too,” the old Watchman says. “Was Thirteenth then.”
“Helluva day,” the stranger replies.
“Helluva day.” The men shake hands.
“Philippe,” the stranger says.
“Stefano,” the older Watchman replies. “That’s Rico. He’s a jackass.”
“So, what’s the flak, Stefano? My friend there looks like she’s about to be that crow’s lunch. And you look like you’re about to be the mob’s.”
“A citizen says your friend stole her bracelet,” Officer Rico says peevishly, annoyed at being left out of the conversation.
“Her bracelet?” The stranger named Philippe laughs. “Did you find it on her?”
“No, but…”
“Then why’s she in the wagon? Rusters ad portas?”
The older one nods. “Citizen threatened to cause a fuss. Threatened to call up the pyramid. Connected, you know.”
