Author: Jack Gilmore

The ground shook as a subway car rattled across the tracks of the A Line station, New Delphi. Murphy was jolted awake from his blissful doze. He’d been dreaming of a day in his youth when his father had taken him to NetflixLand. The sun had beat down on both of them as they had gone from store to store, amusement ride to amusement ride. He could almost taste the sickly sweetness of the cotton candy…

…reality was disappointing.

He sat, leaning against the grimy wall of the subway, his guitar in his lap. A beat-up fedora, his own, sat in front of him, splayed suggestively to the passerby. It held a few pennies and nickels. He wore a pair of stained jeans and a sorry-looking bomber jacket, with torn gloves. There was a chain that snaked below the neckline of what had once clearly been a white t-shirt. A gun was holstered at his hip. He blinked groggily and looked around.

The feeling of a subway station is always the same. The rapid battering of feet across artificial stone, echoes of metal on metal, and an inescapable scent of piss and bodies. He lit a cigarette and pondered this, watching as people passed him without a glance. The smoke drifted lazily through the air, following the path of another passing train. As it passed, he squinted, shifting in place slightly. He surreptitiously lifted his arm and bent his head towards it, in a faux attempt to wipe some of the grime from his face.

“…this is a bad idea,” he whispered into the device on his wrist.

You have a better one? replied the Voice in his head.

“We could capture her after she leaves the station. Position the rest of the Cadre to jump her in an alley.”

We have gone over those options. They are too public; our likelihood of success drops below the line of feasibility. This was your plan. Do you doubt your instincts?

“No. This is our best chance, but… indulge me. Check the odds?”

The models are stable. 82.4% success rate, barring the direct intervention of a weaver.

“… somehow, I still have a bad feeling,” Murphy muttered. Another train approached, the sound decelerating ahead of the vehicle. It screeched to a stop, illuminating the platform with the sign on the side of every car: AMAZON BASICS: AMENITIES FOR ALL

Amidst a crowd of sweaty, frantic passengers, a young woman stepped out of the train car. She wore the uniform of an Amazon U.S. Service officer. She carried a slim package under her arm. Her head turned towards Murphy’s darkened corner briefly, and he slinked back. Her eyes were dark, glaring. The eyes of a killer, Murphy thought. She turned away and began walking at a brisk pace towards the steps leading out into the greater city.

There was an odd moment of stillness in the subway then — perhaps 2 heartbeats — before Murphy pocketed the coins from his fedora, placed the hat on his head, and followed her.