Sally's Story: Breathe

	“The fuck I will!” He tightened his grip on the other officer, whose hands sat raised to his chest. The robot opposite them brandished her badge, the brassy glint doing little to dissuade the hostage taker. She stretched her other hand, fingers ready to fly for her inner coat pocket, motions hard-coded to be instinct. But her hand couldn’t move, she realized- it *wouldn’t*. The hellish eyes staring back at her stayed her hand, even a slight twitch would be Vincent’s death, the man’s knuckles taught against the skin as he squeezed the knife. “I want some answers, *now*,” he yelled.
	“Sir,” she started.
	“Cut the shit,” he snapped. There was little time for introductions. “Make your point.”
	“We’re police officers, as you can tell.” She gestured to the badge with her head, taking care not to jerk around. “We’re investigating a death from the city’s west end. In our investigation we found connections to the Weather Underground, and clearly you’ve found yourself involved with them. Mitchell as well.”
	“That’s got nothing to do with me,” he sneered, eyes darting left. The man on the couch grumbled mid-snore.
	“It has *everything* to do with you. Mitchell’s been a big help to us, and we want you to help us too, okay,” Sally started, trying to calm him down. The man shivered slightly, glancing between the robot and the slumbering man and his pale of throw-up. “We’re trying to do right by this city, and the Weathermen aren’t going to do that. But you knew that right? Mitchell certainly knows it.”
	“You don’t know shit about me,” he muttered, the color returning to his knuckles.
	“I do though, *we* do. You served the country, came home and wanted things to change,” she started, circling closer with her words. The squeeze was on, just as she’d done hours before on Mitchell. “You wanted to make a difference. The Weathermen offered you that, right?”
	He bit his lip, calculating his next move. Human faces had tells like his own, a jump of the eyebrows or crease of the mouth, but he found none in scanning the robot’s face. Her cheeks burnt low, anxious, but that was of no use tactically- anyone would be nervous where she was. Recoiling, nearly losing his composure, he watched a warm smile drift onto the robot’s face. It was something he’d only seen a decade ago in field hospitals and with his buddies, and rarely (if ever) after coming home. It was a scornless look, understanding- she could tell he didn’t want to do this. It was true, he knew it, but he couldn’t face anymore time locked up, controlled- more implement than man.
	“If I help you,” he gulped, “You have to promise to let me go.” Sally knew the law, she knew the rules and what to say- she’d been built with them. None of those rules about promises, however, cared to mention when a knife was at the throat of one’s partner.
	“Maybe put the knife away, and then we can start talking promises, okay? We’re just here to talk.”
	“I’ve been around cops enough to know that’s a resounding ‘no’.”
	“And I’ve been around criminals enough to know you’re not one. You hate this, I can tell,” Vincent choked.
	“And I don’t remember asking.” His grip tightened an inch. “Explain why you’re here and *then* we’ll see what happens.”
	“Early yesterday we were called to a scene,” Sally began, sighing. In the moment the programmed-stoicism had dulled anything but pure forensic logic but now, remembering the dismal apartment, she had to pause. “A young girl died, overdosed. Through our investigations we found she had been getting drugs from one of your compatriots- Ringo.”
	“And?”
	“He’s dead, Paul.” His eyes widened again, briefly. He was halfway between screaming and cheering, but he swallowed it back. That name, that ‘codename’ or whatever it could be called. A moniker, mocking him more than it protected him.
	“Don’t call me that,” he spat. “Shitty fucking nicknames so we can play secret agent man, I swear-”
	“Hey, hey- I understand. Please, we need your help. It’s gone deeper than we ever imagined, and we need answers to finish it.” The same smile was there again, but weaker, tired. He knew he couldn’t keep this up, the subtle bulge inside the brown jacket, the unfortunate realization dawning that, no, he was not faster than a robot. Loosening his grip, knuckles flush and pink again, he inhaled deeply, trying to arrest his heart. Adrenalin-infused machismo fading the shaking that had taken his hands subsided, too.
	“Okay,” he breathed. “Okay.” He gently lowered the knife, his hold on Vincent loosening. His eyes widened, calmer, but alert- he wasn’t about to put the knife away totally, but he would respect the officers enough not to try anything again. Sally wordlessly slipped her badge away, opposite hand finding her gun for security’s sake. Her partner lowered his hands slowly, sidling away as his captor watched him, and Sally him.
	“So,” Vincent started. “Where do we begin?”

	Vincent now comfortably free, the trio sat in the tiny kitchen, crowded around a small wooden table. The two detectives squeezed together across from their new interviewee. Still jittery from their less-than-amicable introduction he struggled to light a cigarette. With a deep inhale, taking care not to puff directly in the officer’s faces, he slackened and reclined in his seat. Once a sizable grey-blue smog was birthed and swirling above them, he was ready. Sitting back up he faced Vincent first, then Sally.
	“So- what do you want to know?”
	“Well, first and foremost, a proper introduction would be helpful.”
	“Right, right, sorry,” he apologized, shaking his head. He stuck an anxious hand out before continuing. “Booker.”
	“Booker…,” Sally implied, spinning her hand slowly.
	“Oh! Heh. Booker Williams.” Sally jotted a note in her book. She took his hand confidently, restored just a bit that she’d resolved things peacefully. Vincent responded in turn, a bit more cautious, but the introduction was enough to start with. “So, where should we start?”
	“If it’s no trouble, start at the beginning, before you joined.”
	“Well, it’s the same story you’ve probably figured,” he sighed. His face darkened, unpleasant recollections returning as he traced time backwards across the decade. “I was a draftee like Mitch, served overseas, came home. Shit was bad for us getting back, and we met each other in the 101st.”
	“How long have you known each other?”
	“A while, a *long* while. Technically we’ve been roommates for a few years but,” he grumbled, rubbing the back of his neck, “he’s been drifting around a lot more lately.”
	“Yeah,” Vincent chuckled. “I’m glad we found him when we did.” Booker leant his head forward and out the kitchen to the large man prone on the sofa.
	“Right,” he laughed.
	“Actually Mister Williams, could we talk more about Mitchell first?”
	“What about him?”
	“Why has he been out so late- like *that*, rather,” the robot started. “We’re trying to eke out who’s who in the weathermen.”
	“Well if you got him you probably already know, right?”
	“We’d like your *sober* perspective.” The man laughed, swirling the smoggy air with his hand.
	“Yeah, yeah- Mitch has always been out there, I guess. When we joined up after Dewey he stuck out with how… how *genial* he was, how vocal.”
	“They wanted a propagandist?”
	“Not exactly. He was good at talking, but better at partying. It started small, right? He’d be told to hang around a bar, talk people up and get *them* drunk, yeah?” The robot nodded along. “Then he’d talk up some of the organization's points, get people moving and *thinking*.”
	“Around when was this,” Vincent interjected.
	“Not too many years ago. Up until he started drifting into the disco scene.”
	“Yeah, yeah,” the detective continued. “Sal, you weren’t around for it but when I was a patrol officer there were a lot more unions dancing around in the city during those years. Hell, there was usually a new strike every week when it got to fever-pitch.” The man opposite them laughed.
	“Yeah, Mitch got people stirred up- he was like some kind of revolutionary half the time.”
	“He had good slogans, I have to say,” Vincent snickered. “Half the time I found myself agreeing with the bastards even as they pelted us with rocks or whatever the hell else.”
	“Ah, that’s where I come in. Not to *gloat* but I’m the guy. Mitch and I are, or were, I suppose, a package deal. He has the voice, I have the words.”
	“You’re a writer?”
	“More than that, I’m their all-in-one artist,” he said, gesturing to another painting behind them with his cigarette butt. He struck up a second before continuing. “I had a knack for it after coming home, and ‘they’ liked that. I wrote a lot of those slogans, pamphlets and whatever the fuck else they needed from me. It’s pretty cushy if I do say myself, but lately… it’s been lacking.”
	“‘They’ are losing interest?”
	“I mean, when was the last time there was a strike? When did a union last do anything worthwhile? That’s why, the unions aren’t doing anything that *needs* it- they’re more weathermen enforcers than unions now.”
	“Enforcers,” the nandroid questioned.
	“Yeah- most of the drugs in this city touch their hands first, they need people to keep it stable. It’s shitty, and it’s why Mitch and I have been falling out with them.”
	“Mitch told us the same story, how he’s not buying it anymore.”
	“Precisely- this kind of work isn’t what we joined on for, hell no. With all this disco shit,” he spat, “Mitch just slinks off to get high, and I sit here doing nothing really.”
	“And what about the other two, Ringo and John?”
	“You know John?”
	“By association and Mitchell, yes.”
	“Put it simply, they love this shit. I didn’t know him like I do Mitch, wasn’t on a first-name basis or anything. Even less with John, slimy bastard.”
	“Could you elaborate on what they did?”
	“Sure, sure- when it was young, starting up, Ringo moved things, trading around to earn money. John is an enigma to me, I’ve no fucking clue where he came from, when or where he served, or *why* he joined- I should add he was a vet too. My only interaction with him was him giving me a houseplant, only to find it bugged.”
	“Surveillance?”
	“Obviously, but he did a pretty awful fucking job,” he laughed. “I threw it out the window and never saw him again. But the problem is he’ll follow people or have someone else do it, now.”
	“You think we’re being followed now,” Vincent asked.
	“Oh for sure. At this point, had he the power, he’d have us killed. But,” he said, eyeing the knife on the kitchen counter, “he knows better than to try that.”
	“Once we leave, though- what then?”
	“If I try and leave things won’t be pretty for either of us, though it’s the only option that makes sense, that feels right.”
	“And what about the weathermen?”
	“Fuck if I care, John can burn in hell and the guy above him too. I’m through now, you’re talking to a dead man,” he muttered.
	“Do you think you could help us, Booker?”
	“Help how? I’ve already told you most of what I know.”
	“Most- but not all,” Sally pressed. “You mentioned ‘they’ a few times-”
	“‘Who’s *they*?’, you’re gonna ask. Don’t know, won’t know. John’s the only one close enough to them to answer that, and good luck getting him to leave. Now that Ringo’s dead things are gonna start moving faster.”
	“Things?”
	“I was never in deep, being a glorified newsboy, but there were always whispers of a bigger plan. If you killed him, you obviously found a den underground- one of dozens, hundreds probably. Fuckers squatting underground waiting for the order to do *something*.”
	“And you think that order’s coming soon?”
	“Soon? It’s probably in motion, given by some guy on a phone to John.”
	“Jesus,” Vince whispered. “What’s there to do?”
	“Prepare, arm yourselves, get your department moving. Ringo didn’t just smuggle drugs around,” he sneered.
	“What can you tell us about that? How well armed are they?” He stuck his hands up defensively.
	“I’m just a painter, miss. If you had a gunfight with them then you know pretty well what they’re packing.”
	“Right…”
	“Look, at this point there’s only so much more I can tell you. Get a fire under whoever’s ass needs one and have the police ready- but don’t go starting a panic.” Panic. The robot doubled over, slowly, eyes meeting with the glossy table’s veneer. A faint reflection eyed her back, taunting her with the impossibility of stopping what was coming. Talking down one guy with a knife and his drunk buddy was one thing, but the coming storm was another.
	“Sal?” There was a roiling fear inside her, capturing and clawing as she pushed against it. Her composure collapsed, force to come to terms with the momentous forces converging around her. Booker and Vince could nonchalantly discuss the reality of an armed insurrection in the city like old friends, really, specifics traded like baseball cards. But, starting to pant, she couldn’t help but feel those closing, brick-laid walls. She arrested herself upwards, pausing to steady her breath before leaving.
	“Excuse me,” she mumbled.
	“Sal,” the man asked after her. “Sally?”
	“She alright?”
	“Yeah, I mean- I think so,” Vincent sputtered. She slipped out of the kitchen to take a breath, the bushy carpet ruffling with each step. She leaned back and heaved, the whipping thump of a nonexistent heart hammering in her ears as she tried to calm herself down, to settle the nauseous swirling of the world around her. Holding her hands out for support she centered herself in the room; an archaic television, wood-paneled, stared at her, jungly landscapes peered out from the walls and the dull door knob throbbed at her as a dimple of light traced along its curvature. The couch lay across from her, the lump there speaking to her as she arrested her head in place.
	“Hey,” it called to her. *He*, she reminded herself. “Hey! You good dude?”
	“Huh? Wh-Sorry, I’m- I’m fine, thank you.” The man propped himself up with his arms, breathing heavily. He sipped at a glass left for him, swirling it in his mouth, letting the cool fluid slip away. Sighing contentedly he waved the robot over, whirling his hand again and again until she obliged by a few inches. Her face tightened, eyebrows wrinkling, as she approached his corner and the foetid bucket that entailed. Nandroids were, ostensibly, meant to be around vomit, but she couldn’t help letting her disgust return as she slid towards the man.
	“You don’t look fine,” he giggled. He filled his lungs again, welcoming a deep, burly heaving of the chest before he reclined 	again. “I’ve seen that look before, and I know you’re worried.”
	“W-Well, I think anyone would be, now more than ever.”
	“Well why’s that, then?”
	“You didn’t,” she stopped herself- of course he didn’t. Until a few minutes ago or, more likely, *now*, he was unconscious beside his still-stewing bucket. “Mister Williams thinks that the weathermen are going to make a move soon. Maybe even tonight, I wager, with how… organized things are.”
	“And what are you going to do about it?”
	“That’s the problem,” she lamented, sitting on the arm of the sofa. “What the hell *can* I- *we* do? What’s even the point with something like *this*?” She withdrew the sidearm she’d gotten the day before, fired for the first time in anger only hours later. She flipped it side-to-side, measuring its mass by touch and look, nickel-plating beaming in the dim lamplight. Checkered wood furniture rubbed her palm as she worked it around, Mitchell’s pink eyes following it lazily. He laughed.
	“You think that’s something? Man, I’d have a field day telling you the shit I’ve had to deal with with less than *that*,” he chuckled again. “At the end of the day, you’ve gotta fight, right?”
	“R-Right, but-”
	“There’s no buts here, miss- just *do*. You care about this city?”
	“I-” She had to stop again. She’d been in the city, let alone *awake*, for two days or so. Any inkling of programmed response had faded with stressors and intense field experience, but seeing just how grave a danger Beacon City faced stirred her. “I do.”
	“And your partner in there,” he winked, “him? You care about your buddies, right? Your other cop friends?”
	“Of course! Vince has been invaluable on this case, and-”
	“Drop the ‘case’ shtick, think of him as *him*. Would he die for you?”
	“Y-Yes, I think.”
	“Would you die for him?”
	“Yes,” she fronted, confidence edging in again. “I would.”
	“Then look to that, little robot. When things get tight and you’re in deep, you’re there for your buddies and no one else,” he breathed. Flaming, reddened eyes danced in the light before her, wisdom slipping from them as she watched him.
	“Thank you, Mitchell.”
	“Hey,” he laughed. “You dropped the ‘Mister’.”
	“Something funny Mitch?”
	“Nah Booker, just talking with this robot here. Dispensing some wisdom.”
	“Wisdom,” he snorted, turning to Sally. “‘If his eyes are pink, he cannot think.’ I’ve got more like that.”
	“Hey…,” the hairy man whined.
	“Yeah, yeah…”
	“Sal,” a fourth popped in. The other detective stood, arms crossed, in the kitchen entrance. “You good?”
	“Yeah,” she nodded. “Yeah. I’m ready to go.”
	“Go?”
	“Well, if the weathermen are moving, we need to move too. We have to get to the precinct and raise the alarm.”
	“You sure you’re okay Sal?”
	“I was made to do a job, so let’s do it,” she insisted, staring dead into Vincent’s eyes.
	“Oh- Okay, okay.” He was taken aback, his special-issue ‘notebook’ now giving the orders.
	“If you’re going,” the third slurred, “I’m coming. Depending on the time, I’ll be good to go.”
	“Mitchell I’m not sure if that’s wise, or even legal,” Vincent chided.
	“Then deputize me, simple as that.” He clapped his hands past each other for effect.
	“Well, if he’s going, I’m going,” Booker sighed, resigning himself. “We’ve gotta stick together and, hell, this is my chance to get back at ‘em I guess.” Sally stood defiantly, approaching Vincent.
	“It’s up to you, sir. I think,” she took a breath. “I think- I *know* we can do this, but we’ll need a lot of help.” He stood motionless, eyes shut and pensive. His bushy moustache wormed around his lip before he nodded. The be-couched man stirred lightly, flopping forward and up into the arms of his roommate. The quartet slipped out of the apartment and away into the pitch blackness of Beacon City, hell-bound for the precinct office to start their work.