TheAmishPirate

Breathless Dead

Dolce doesn’t panic. This, too, is obedience and observation. He knows the ways of listening to a houseguest, and discerning the ways they like to be treated that differ from the usual manners.

Haven’t had to do it in a long time. Slightly difficult circumstances to do it in. Dolce doesn’t panic.

“Oh. Dear. That’s not the impression I was looking to give at all.” He replies in a low, strained whisper that 20022 has no hope of spotting. Which may make the spy accusations yet more credible. Hrm. “My apologies, I may have over-prepared a tad for this assignment.”

It made sense, in a way. Whether in the Manor or the Service, the work was the same; take care of the busywork necessary for others to live and work comfortably. Only, an Empire was quite a bit larger than a Manor. An Empire needed its inhabitants to, well, do things on occasion. Which required a degree less invisibility.

…which meant a workforce, created, to do difficult and thankless tasks, to be fought and scorned as they did those tasks, and to live in a constant state of exasperation and irritation at the ones they were meant to be helping.

“I.” A practiced tension stole over him, smothering and absorbing the very emotion he needed. And still he felt relief at hearing no tremor in his voice. “I don’t suppose you have any tips for being…’lowkey mad’, do you?”

Breathless Dead

He has had two days to prepare for this moment.

He spent those days sick.

No room in the shuttle was spared. Everywhere he went, he could hear them. Every viewport he passed, he closed. It never ceased. It never stayed the same. One, continuous riot, composed of a thousand boiling horrors. A crushing wall of violence, and his ears could pick out the bumps in the mortar. Remarkably akin to working with a fresh bird. He washes his hands, again.

He has had two days to prepare for this moment.

Ask 20022 what to expect when the airlock opens, and 20022 will stir his tea, sniff it gingerly, and add just a splash more honey to the brew. Request a briefing on 20022’s mission, and the protocols of first contact with Biomancer General Liquid Bronze, and 20022 will smile, and 20022 will fetch the slides.

20022 answers every useful question asked of him, to the fullest. 20022 did not say it would be two days. Maybe members of the Service are to ask wisely. Maybe 20022 is still angry. How does he focus on the sheep inside the shuttle and ignore the death outside the shuttle? Dolce does not ask him.

He had only two days to prepare for this moment.

It is the first time he remembers waking. Previously, awake and asleep sounded the same. Now, there is only silence. Now, the only sounds are the ones he remembers. Within the hour, he is expected by 20022’s side, and he is not to be violently ill. Two days. It is time.

The Summerkind find a sheep of a different hue behind and beside their guest. He is dressed in what clothes have been provided him; simple formalwear, not as nice as 20022’s uniform, by a few noticeable degrees. He observes them. He observes his superior. His gaze is attentive, but dull. Docile. Obedient.

They do not see the lioness standing behind him. He does not see the lioness standing behind him, because his eyes are set forward, always. But he hears her. He hears the soft whisper, the dampening of her voice that somehow leaves all its warmth and power intact. His ears tingle, waiting for the breath to steal over them that must be coming as she reminds him. “Go along. Be obedient. Observe. There is too much wrong here. You cannot help them right now. Survive this; there is nothing more you can do.”

He inclines his head deferentially, that not a speck of undeserved praise may fall on him. “My apologies for the confusion; I am a new hire, studying under and assisting 20022. I have yet to earn a number. My name is Dolce.”

When he looks up, all he can see are bloodied knuckles.

”Be obedient. Observe. Nothing more.”

Breathless Dead

To the Royal Architect,

I will tell you everything I have learned, everything I have done, and what I now plan to do since I have left your home, by the name of Zeus whose hospitality you invoked.

Please do read this entire letter first.

I was able to converse with the Assassin, after much difficulty. Her wish was that even some small part of her could live, without the curse written into her bones. Which is why her severed head is currently living in my spare closet. She could not give a clear timeframe as to when it would regenerate a new body. Apparently this sort of thing hasn’t come up before. I fear her makers would have built a countermeasure if it had.

Now comes the bad news. The only way she could speak with me, the only way this process could work, was if her mission was not disrupted by it. She could bend the rules of her curse so far, but no further. Afterwards, I was to launch the coffin back to you. I have enclosed with this letter my best approximation of our position and time when I did so. After the warp you kindly gave us, I imagine she will have a long, long, long journey.

Which brings me to the discovery: She has no name upon her bones. Only a title. I suspect that many of the Assassins sent after you are made in the same fashion.

I have until she completes her journey back to you. In that time, I will search for a place where you can continue your mission, with something better than polite knives from those around you. If I can manage this, then when she wakes at last, she will be of no danger to you. No Assassin that has been born will be of danger to you. And your colleagues may find other, more relevant friends to send their gifts to.

I think, should we find such a place, that your work would be all the better for it.

I won’t ask you to not defend yourself, should it come to it. I ask only for patience. We have time, and I will be making offerings for her safety, but also for a long voyage. I wish both of you to live. This is the only way I know how to make it so. All I ask is the chance to try.

If you discern any changes to the coffin, please let me know. I will keep you updated on my search.

Faithfully,

Dolce, formerly of Beri

**********************************************

Vasilly,

I am okay. I am unharmed. I am in no imminent peril.

I am sorry I could not write you any sooner. I am sorry for quite a bit more besides.

I left Beri, thinking only of taking a short trip, just a few days, with the other sheep who is often with Mayor Kaspar. 20022 is his name, by the way. He had told me of some opportunities in the civil service, and, you remember our talks? About the Skies? I was wondering…well, I was wondering quite a bit, but mainly, I wanted to know if I could help Beri beyond running our little cafe. I wanted to know if I could help everyone on Bitemark.

We met the Crystal Knight.

(Here, there is an uncharacteristic scribble. Words written, then taken back, but too much had been said already to start anew.)

The Royal Architect was coming to mine the planet. We were to get everyone out of the way, to safety. She wanted the ship in the sea. The Royal Architect was not going to wait for everyone to get clear of the peninsula.

I thought there must be something I could do. I thought I could get 20022 to see how…monstrous a thing this was.

I couldn’t do anything.

What little I thought to do was seen, and overridden. And most of my days were spent

I was so happy to hear that everyone got out safely. There is a prayer, apparently, of Mars, that tells you that sort of thing. We saw another ship come down, and then nothing after that. But you all got out. You all got out, in the end.

I am sorry. Please. Tell Mosaic I am sorry. For everything.

I was onboard the Slitted, at the time. Something happened, and the ship was damaged. 20022 and I were busy with the escape, and neither of us could do a thing. I couldn’t slip away, and we both left on one of the escape pods. We were gone, I think, before your ship took off.

Much has happened since then. We visited the Royal Architect. He gave us a shuttle, and he warped us rather far across the galaxy, somehow. He sent with us a slightly damaged machine intelligence, and an Assassin frozen in a coffin. He didn’t want either of them anymore, and they didn’t seem particularly happy to stay with him. There’s too much to write for one letter, so expect a second one shortly.

But 20022. I have told him I want nothing to do with a Service that allows such things to happen. He refuses to listen to me. Despite what we’ve been through together, he acts as though he hasn’t heard me at all. He wishes me to stay. He wishes me to join the Service, and if I were to give him a firmer rejection, then he will leave me behind the next chance he gets. At first I thought he was upset because I kept him from doing anything when the Slitted was attacked. Now, I am not so sure. I don’t understand him. I don’t know how he can pretend this is good.

We are headed, I think, to try and stop you. But that means we are getting closer to you, and that is better than any planet he could leave me on, so I suppose it is working out alright.

I will write more. And I will wait for your letters. I will keep them close to me, always. Maybe I will sew a little pocket in my vest? They do those in the stories, sometimes. It seems a sensible idea. I will keep your letters close by, and whenever I want to hear your voice, I will read them.

And I promise I will do a better job of things than I did on Bitemark. I promise.

All of my love, and always yours,

Dolce

Breathless Dead

To not help with the beheading is to make her drive a knife through her own flesh without another soul to help carry that weight. So he offers to man the controls. The sound is remarkably akin to working with a fresh bird. He will remember that.

To not help with the paperwork is to demand she perfectly execute the bureaucratic maneuver that will decide her fate while her own blood dries on her sleeves. So he offers his eyes to her cause. The forms are exacting, yet fewer than he would have expected. This is what it takes to end a life. He will remember that.

She did not ask for his help. She is one of the galaxy’s deadliest warriors, brilliant in her thinking, confident in her bearing, and willing to do whatever it takes to live. No part of this would have been too much for her, or else she would have asked. But Dolce has seen far too many people suffering, people whose names and voices he knew, and he could not even offer his presence. Just sympathies, thrown from a distance. If there’s opportunity and means to lend to a hand, he will take that opportunity, as those do not happen as often as you might think or like.

To not say goodbye is unthinkable.

“Take care.” He offers his hand, without hesitation, hiding the exhaustion creeping through him “I will make offerings for a safe flight.”

Her smile as she clasps his hand is answer enough. She knows what she will wake to. She knows not if she would rather be the severed head. She is grateful, perhaps, that she has no choice in the matter.

Does she know the choice he will face, when her coffin drifts into the distance? He hopes she does. It would feel like a trick, otherwise. As it stands, he sends an Assassin back from whence she came, to her unfinished business and a target who ought not to die like this. He cannot sit back and pretend that what happens to the Royal Architect is none of-

Grief seizes a thought, and flings it to the fore.

“...the name on your bones is the Royal Architect, yes?” He pauses, still holding her hand. “That was the name on all of the forms we signed. There was never an actual name. Just a title. So, is that what’s written on your bones as well?”

Something in his voice gives her pause. She closes her eyes, concentrates, and nods. “I have never seen the full nature of my curse. But as far as I can tell, yes, that is the name.”

Of course. Of course it was. “I though it was strange that Artemis would permit a contract with no name. But a title is good enough here. There is no one else who can do the Royal Architect’s job. He is the only one that title can apply to, because he is irreplaceable. The contract will never target anyone else, so it’s as good as a name, and much easier to come by, I imagine.”

“Indeed. Much, much easier. But why should it matter what name I bear?”

“Please, correct me if I am wrong…” It was an idea so foolish, it had no business being said. But was it really the most foolish thing he’d done all day? “But if the Royal Architect were to abdicate his position and leave the Skies entirely by the time you wake, would that not nullify the contract?”

The only sound in the hangar was the faint crackling of crystal energy. Not even breath stirred the air. “You realize,” she says, gently. “That such a thing would be tantamount to the fall of the Skies themselves? That such a contingency was not accounted for, because it would mean far grander disasters were at hand?” She is one of the galaxy’s deadliest warriors, brilliant in her thinking, confident in her bearing, and desperate, desperate to live.

Does she see the thin thread of hope he clings to?

“Yes. Yes, I don’t know exactly how it would happen. But,” he lays his other hand gently over hers, and squeezes lightly. “I would really rather no one else get killed.”

Breathless Dead

It takes him time. Forgive him, Assassin, but he needs time. Would that manners permitted him a piece of her scrap paper and a pencil! It is much, much harder envisioning all this, while watching her, while watching his heartbeat, while watching his posture, while tracking the seconds it’s been since she stopped speaking. Time. Give him time!

“That…that would work. As far as I can understand it, anyway.” It still leaves her - that is, the her talking with him right now, not the her in the coffin, nor the her whose head will grow a new her, oh dear, this was complicated - tied to a body whose bones bear a curse. But she was calm now. They were talking now. And they could work with that. For now.

His hand trembles.

“Please, you have no need to beg.” He continues to watch her, all of her. In the periphery, his own arm extends bit by bit, mechanically clicking through the motions. Each jerk closer winds his chest tighter. A great, invisible vise crushes in his shoulders. When he touches her hand, her fingers will close around his. She is going to bring her hand up, and down, some polite number of times. Her grip will not tighten. Her claws will not lengthen. His skin will not be pierced. His body will not be thrown. He does not need to watch for these. He does not need to watch for these. He does not need to watch for these. “I will walk with you; I want you to live, too.”

It doesn’t feel good to say it. It’s certainly his fault.

Breathless Dead

It’s remarkable, the way she can hold her hand out to an unmoving sheep that makes him look like the awkward one.

“My apologies, I’ve had to be on highest alert to keep from getting killed all this day.” Even now, his pulse quickens and his body prepares to leap, on instinct, seeing her hand move closer. Guilt tugs at him, its shadow crossing his face. “It will take me a little time to warm to the idea.”

This is the second first impression she has given him. She first appeared as a pilgrim of the Hermetics, so alight with wonder that she would beg questions of Hades before concerning herself with her shades’ fate. Now she appears as a regal creature out of timeless myth, gracious and perilous in her bearing. It is a little unfair that he knows the both of her. He can’t stop from wondering where her heart lies between the two.

“Because you’re right; this will only work if we trust each other. Beyond right now, I have to trust that you won’t kill me, you have to trust I’m not fooling you for my own ends. And that has to start somewhere.” It may have already started. She has extended her hand. His thumb remains on the button. "It's an oath, yes? Or maybe something written in you?"

She gives a slight dip of her head. No more need be said about it.

"I thought it might be. You don't sound like someone who's stuck and despairing. You’ve given this quite a bit of thought." It might’ve been easier if she was simply trapped in her own head. Some problems can be solved with a nice chat over a cup of tea. Had he really thought this one would be so easy? Or was that just a desperate prayer for a bit of good news?

He frowns, and takes his own time to think. She is gracious enough to give it to him. “If it were only me...I've been in some fights before, and what happens there is the realm of Mars. Artemis is a much different matter. Clear, direct, and laid out. A name is signed, and there must be blood. I've never had a hand in a hunt before. It won't be my hand on the knife, but it will be my hand that sets it loose, and my heart that must live with the consequences. Just as it would have to live with you trapped in that coffin."

Either may prove too much for him to bear. She knows his story. She knows the price of breaking here. No more need be said about it.

“Knowing all that,” his free hand rises above the tabletop. Just a smidge. His fingers cannot decide whether to curl open or pull back. “Is this what you would ask of me?”

[Rolling to Speak Softly: 4 + 4 + 3 = 11. Can Dolce trust her with his heart? He also Forges a Bond with her.]

Breathless Dead

The key turns in the lock. The door opens. He is careful not to rush. He is more careful not to delay. Though the wait was necessary, he has made her wait long enough. He sits down across from her, hands where she can see them. He wears a shirt with barely a tear in the collar.

"Let me start at the beginning of my journey. It isn't a long story, but it will explain everything I know..."

It isn't the only story he could tell and, to be honest, it may not even be the wisest. A much shorter rundown of who he is and how she got to be here might be all that is necessary to share. Who knows? Maybe Assassins think Synnefo who can't stomach the Service are failures and cowards. If he has learned one thing today, it is that he truly does not know anything about assassins, and what little he does know is probably wrong and liable to get himself almost killed. Why would he assume a Deodekoi would be unaware of her powers and mission? What myth made him think that? It was a silly idea, in hindsight.

Wise or not, she deserves to know who she's dealing with if she's to have any say in what happens next.

So he tells her of a chef who wanted something better, and failed to find it in civic service. He tells her of a miracle snatching hope from certain tragedy, and his small part which ended in a polite loss of freedom. When he approaches the subject of his visit with the Architect, he checks in a few times to see how she is doing, and if he needs to abridge events any further for her sake. However the news is delivered, he tells her of an assassin who was thwarted and imprisoned, then delivered into the hands of a chef. He tells her how they have spoken before - and runs a finger along his collar - but this is the first conversation they've been able to have. He tells her she won't remember any of this. He tells her he has no way to prove any of that.

"I want to help get you out of there, but I don't know how to do that without you trying to kill me." And he speaks of it with no accusation or judgment. There really is no offense taken. "I'd also really rather you didn't kill anyone else?"

Breathless Dead

20022!

He makes you wait. There is much to do, after all, and his process is as closed to you as his thoughts.

Is this pettiness? The silence? It's not efficiency, that's for certain. Oh, you don't step on each other's hooves, but neither is there any synergy to speak of. You could have taken that pot off the burner, rather than Dolce having to step swiftly across the kitchen to get it himself, and yet nothing burns. Tantrum or habit, you've nothing else better to do. You can wait. You can observe.

You observe his mouth drawn tightly. You observe him set dishes down sharply, then wince at the noise. You observe his nose twitch, twitch, twitch as he thinks. When the spread is all but complete, he speaks at last.

"She will not be used against liquid bronze."

And you observe, as he turns to leave, his anger was not directed at you.

Assassin!

I'm sorry, I don't have a better name to call you by.

One moment, you're killing the architect. The next, you wake up alone in a well-lit room.

I know your blood is up. I know your mind is racing. I don't know what you're feeling right now, and I'm not going to hazard any guesses. I'm just going to tell you what you see, and a little of what might happen next. You might notice things in a different order, and that's okay. Go at your own pace.

You're in a room on the Architect's shuttle. One of the grand suites, in a non-standard configuration. Much of the furniture and trappings have been removed. The beds still there though. It's large, much larger than you, and comfortable. It will break if you hit it. Nothing else will happen if you do.

No one is here. No one is in the hallway immediately outside. If you can tell, and maybe you can, the nearest person is some ways down the hall, waiting. You will hear their their footsteps if they approach, but they do not, no matter what you do. The door is locked. It will make noise if it is unlocked. You are alone, and unbothered.

There is a low table before you. There is a stack of blank paper, and a pen. Take notes, draw, rip them to shreds, crush it to dust, do with them what you will. They are offered freely.

Also on the table is a generous spread of food. Freshly made. A variety of tastes, a variety of spices, chosen carefully that the smell is inviting without being overwhelming, without any two dishes clashing. There is no invitation, nor any indication of place settings. The food is there, offered freely to anyone who will take it, and such an open and vague offer cannot be considered binding hospitality. Eat, if you like.

There is a coffin, with you inside it. There is a strange device attached to it. There is a note affixed to the device, asking you to please not tamper with it, as that is how you are standing in two places at once.

"I will explain when I return. It will be some time. I will knock before I enter." Signed, Dolce, and a little drawing of a Synnefo holding a heart.

The room is, save for the coffin, yours. Do with it what you will. Take your time. Work out what you have to. Enjoy the food, or don't. But this much I promise you: As your attention tries to claw its way back to your mission, it will find this room frictionless. It will be given no data. It will be given no targets. It will be given no fuel. It will only have the memory of the Architect breaking beneath your claws to sustain itself, and memory dulls as familiarity grows.

Some time much, much, much later, there are steps down the hall, and a knock on the door.

"This is Dolce. May I come in?"

Breathless Dead

It takes him some time to catch his breath, amidst his racing heart. Amidst the ghostly haze dancing in his eyes. Amidst the stink of cigarette smoke.

One deep breath in. One deep breath out. He picks himself up. He checks his shirt collar, feels the slight scratch in the fabric. He walks past his audience to get changed.

“I’m not done talking with her yet. That was only our first try.”

*********************************************************

Bold talk for someone who didn’t know if he’d get a second try.

It goes the same as the first. Almost the same. Word-for-word, the same. The only difference is that the sheep with his finger on the button knows the entire script, and hopes with all his heart that she doesn’t miss her lines.

He’s never been so relieved to have an Assassin leap at him. She doesn’t remember. There’s still a chance.

“You know, you’re right.” 20022 adds from the doorway. “This was worth ruining another perfectly good shirt for.”

*********************************************************

He makes full use of any drawing board and piece of scrap paper he can get his hands on. He’s got plans to make. Each attempt, a radically new approach to the conversation, tailor-made to supply as much new information as possible. Does she prefer a more clinical style of emergency protocol, the two of them navigating a flowchart together? Does she want some more urgency, to match her energy? Should he talk first, or should she? Could he actually invite her to discuss the matter over tea?

As soon as he finishes each attempt, he’s off to write down everything he can remember, and begin work on designing his next attempt. Even with carte blanche, even with no other guests on board to compete with for supplies, he writes in his smallest hand, uses both sides, and carefully annotates important points to simplify future references.

This was one route he thought he might have to take.

Lying in the corner of the coffin’s room is a sheet of metal and a sheet of paper. A carving tool might have been nice for the metal, but perilous to bring into a room with an Assassin, and possibly extraneous anyway. A simple, but quite fragile pen sufficed for the paper.

He’d left some space by the sign he’d written, big enough for a second sign. It would have been nice to collect her mark - undeniably her mark, delivered in a hand that only she could replicate - every time the two of them talked. Proof that they had talked. Something to even the scales, just a little.

It was one route he thought he could take. He has a better use for the paper, now.

*********************************************************

Did you know? That when the need is great, and velocity greater, a sheep can skid the full length of a carpeted room and still hit the wall hard enough to smart?

“Did it almost get you that time, or was that all your own doing?” 20022 scans the room, idly guestimating distances. “If so, an impressive standing long jump. Well done.”

Did you also know? That the door to this room could be easily unlocked from the outside?

Perhaps the scales were unbalanced in his favor. Perhaps that made the whole situation just…balanced? Is that what happened when an injustice meets unfair scales? It was keeping him alive, and he was rather grateful for that. If it weren’t for this, this, troublesome crystal device, he would’ve been dead on the first attempt. It was the only reason he had a hope, instead of a coffin with a dead girl inside.

He studiously ignores the voice reminding him that said hope had yet to manifest, and his stacks of notes were growing ever-higher.

*********************************************************

If you asked him, this was a rather self-defeating way to make an Assassin.

Imagine if he had been working for the Architect. Imagine if this was a trap. She emerges, as if from a dream, her last memory that of ripping into the Architect. She recognizes - and of course she recognizes, why wouldn’t she? - that she is aboard one of the Architect’s shuttles. She is in a room, alone, with a figure she doesn’t recognize, but who immediately pledges with a solemn oath not to harm her, and to help her.

If you asked him, the most sensible approach would be to cooperate. If you are, in fact, the deadliest person in just about any given room, then why rush? Wait. Observe. See what the lay of the land is. See who these people say they are, and then watch what they do. Figure out if the room is trapped, figure out how many people are aboard the ship, figure out if there’s a cannon pointed at the room, and once you know what’s going on, then you can stab to your heart’s content. What’s the point in attacking right away? If there were external observers, if there was an airlock waiting to open, if there was that cannon…

All valid points. For all the good they did right now. They made the process of redecorating, again, a little more bearable, but little else besides.

Maybe it was easier to think about someone else’s foolishness so he could delay thinking about his own. Additional curtains hadn’t done it. Changing rooms hadn’t done it. Neither had changing the colors on the wall, dampening the noise of the ship leaking in through the door, or any of a dozen other tasteful modifications. He would run out of ideas here eventually.

Maybe by then, he’d have thought of something new to say to her. Something that could get around the insurmountable wall of the Architect’s survival, to see if she could even be let out while he still lived.

No way to know unless he could talk to her. No way to talk to her unless he tried again.

*********************************************************

He retreats, at last, to the kitchen. To a land of warm ovens and comforting scents. To a place of familiar routine and steady activity. Where his most pressing need could be met; the food had gone cold. It will be a while before his next attempt, with no real way to bring it here any faster. Not if she was going to get a nice meal, when next she woke up.

He’d found a solution.

It might be a little early to call it a solution when he hadn’t even tried it yet, but he’d spent so long dancing around the edges of it, he didn’t know what else it could be. The problem was the Architect was still alive. When he got down to it, that’s why every attempt so far had failed. Something in her brain, the way she was made, refused to let her do anything other than pursue her mission if there was even the slightest chance it was left incomplete. If she earnestly believed that she’d succeeded, then she would have no reason to kill anyone here. She would stand down, enough to have a conversation with her.

Under the circumstances, it would be easy to set up. Every time she wakes up, she’s waking up for the first time, and he’s seeing her honest reaction. Suppose he set up a party, in her honor. Have enough people on hand to congratulate her, unprompted. Iterate on the decorations and level of initial cheering until she’s surprised and delighted instead of spooked and stabbing. She’d wake up to the perfect party, tailor-made just for her, celebrating her great achievement, and thrown by someone who wants only to wake her up and bring her home. How could she refuse a chat then?

She couldn’t.

She couldn’t know she’d seen this party a hundred times before. She couldn’t know she’d met him a hundred times more. When she shares a victory dinner prepared just for her, and he asks for her help in getting her out of the coffin, she couldn’t know every time she’d refused. She’d only know this one moment he’d arranged for her to say yes.

Not that he hadn’t lied before, or made judicious use of the crystal device to find a way to get to know her. But those were different. He’d dodged, he’d avoided, he’d tastefully sidestepped the dangerous truth, hoping there was some level of uncertainty regarding her mission she was willing to accept. Some common ground they could both stand on, and speak to each other about. He’d not escalated to outright deception. He’d not judged her too far gone to reason with, and played with her head to plumb the depths of her heart.

An injustice meeting unfair scales. He could use that power to find a way to save her. He can say that he’s setting things right.

No one here could disagree.

Breathless Dead

He does not react. Not in the ways she is looking for, more than enough in the ways she will notice. A fallen teacup is not a gunshot. A reaching hand is not a guard dog twenty-three paces behind you. A reaching hand is not throwing a knife or vaulting over the table. A fallen teacup will not irreparably damage the carpet. He made sure of that. He notices, and he does not react. He is looking for something else.

“Maybe. I repeat: I was a chef.” And there’s more he could try to say, but he doesn’t. There’s a button he could press, and his finger hovers on it in readiness, but he doesn’t. “Please have patience. And please be still. I repeat: I mean you no harm. I want to help you. I need your help to get you back safely.”

He does not slip out of the snappy protocol rhythm. A prayer envelops it instead.

“Please."