You haven't seen that shape in months. Years, maybe. Time doesn't mean much in Midnight City, where it's always midnight except not really, except maybe yes really, because if time doesn't mean much, who the fuck are you to say? Sometimes it feels like a happy accident that you fell in with Slick and his boys, and others it feels like you were born for it, folded out of clay and stardust and molded into a shape, a gun placed in your hand and aimed at his enemies. Destined to play the same role, the same games, the same capers again and again and again. To say that you wouldn't end up here, you'd be lying to yourself. And those are the worst kind of lies, 'cause the only man who can catch you in them is the one in the mirror.
Everything okay? The guy isn't looking at Slick, he's looking at you.
You shift your shoulders under your suit. Sure. You tell him to hang back while you take care of this. He doesn't answer. In fact, he's gone eerily silent. Hey, buddy. You good back there?
