They sit slumped on dilapidated benches outside the central train station at the southern edge of downtown. It’s a grey and early morning.
Arti leans into Cornelius as both of them doze silently. Dmitri is slouching, haggard face barely moving as he occasionally nods off. Next to him and in a similar state sits Dominic, his head wrapped with gauze.
At the curb, Rose leans on the seat of her Triumph, fatigue regularly pulling down the hand in which she’s holding her mobile phone. Nearby, Mirabelle leans against a rough stone wall, the cigarette held between her lips producing curling smoke that drifts gently past her sleepy eyes.
A short distance away, Elvis and Brock are having a slow and tired chat as they rest against some ornate stonework.
“Crazy night,” observes Brock with eyes nearly closed. “All of it.”
“Yeah,” agrees Elvis, his voice almost a whisper. “I don’t know what to think.”
“I don’t think any of us know what to make of this situation,” assures his fellow agent with middling energy.
Elvis responds, “That’s not what I mean.”
“Then what do you mean?” asks Brock, turning his head to look at Elvis through narrowed eyelids.
“I mean Mira. I think … I mean … I think she killed that guy.”
“Yeah, she did,” acknowledges Brock, eyebrows raised with some effort.
Elvis looks at him with droopy-eyed directness.
“Like, maybe murdered him,” he explains. “I don’t think he was going to shoot her like she said.”
Returning his head to its previous position, he continues, “But everything happened so fast. Maybe I’m wrong. I only just looked up at the last second. I just don’t remember seeing him pointing his gun at her. Or maybe I did? I dunno.”
“Huh,” is Brock’s only vocalized reaction as a look of mild concern crosses his face.
“Did you ever see her do anything like that?” asks Elvis.
Brock wearily shakes his head. “No, not like that. But I did see her do something … questionable.”
“I wonder about her,” concludes the young Asian man.
“Me too,” admits Brock. After a few moments he asks, “Why are you telling me this?”
“I guess I feel like I can trust you,” replies Elvis. “Kind of like talking to a doctor, you know?”
“For fuck’s sake,” snorts the other agent, slowly shaking his head in amused disbelief.
“What?” asks Elvis, his puzzlement momentarily betraying his lethargy.
“Never mind,” replies Brock Medic, settling back into an exhausted acceptance. “It’s a long story.”