Sipp Morning (H 1.4)

Hedges seems to accept the reality you and Pellet hand him. He eventually gets up and tells you both he needs to walk around a little. Pellet stays with you when he walks away from the edge of the roof.

I look at Pellet, then away again. "It was my first time using ganja," I answer softly. "I don't know who I was talking to."

My gaze lingers on the paper, the pen, the scribbles Pellet scrawls--a secret code I was never taught how to solve. I wonder if any of the loops and lines on her paper are mine.

I pull my gaze away, heat crawling up the back of my neck at the idea that she might notice my uncomprehending stare. "None of this is important enough to write down," I tell her. "You shouldn't waste your ink."

The corners of my mouth turn down when she says we both know I'm important. I don't know if it's because I disagree with her, or if it's because deep down, it feels like she might be right. Importance is not a feeling I've made a close companion of.

She offers me an escape from the Sippians so confidently, I believe she might actually make it happen, but the idea of being surrounded by books I can't read and people who can might be worse than gutting fish with Pall Mall for the next month.

"I broke Karo's hand," I say, going with the easier truth of them all. "Lucky can't let me go so easily or he'll look weak in front of his gang." I know it's the bullet that killed Hard Strike that really binds me here, even more than that, but that's a secret I don't dare tell. "It is a good offer, Pellet. I can't take it though."

Watching Pellet walk away makes me feel exactly as stupid as I am. I sit on the edge of the roof again, legs dangling over the long fall and look over the horizon with a sadness that has made a permanent home in my eyes.

'You have Kiwi,' I tell the Whispers, my thoughts as resigned as the rest of me. 'Tell me who killed Hard Strike.'

"We do have Kiwi," a Whisper agrees with a flat tone.

"True to our word, we will name the murderer of Hard Strike," another Whisper answers with a soft giggle.

"No Sippian killed Hard Strike," a Whisper informs you. "Wells Fargo of the Vault shot her in the back and let her to rot in USBank."

The information doesn't taste as sweet as I thought it would. A name is nothing without proof. I can only hope the Sippians had problems with the Vaulters already, that they would easily believe one of them would kill Hard Strike. Maybe a name will be enough and I can go back to my life tomorrow - not to the Librarians with their words, not to Nuport with her accusations - back to nights at the Belly, days in my apartment, safely away from the world where I can't wreck any minds or barter anyone's souls.

I scan the horizon, wishing Lucky Strike were here so I could tell him immediately and know if I've done enough to free myself. Instead, I exhale a breath and get up, heading for the door to go back inside. The ganja has left me thirsty. I need a drink.

End Scene