Chapter Two - White Cat

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2. White Cat

“What the hell is your problem?” I huffed as we put the building behind us.

“I’m not usually like this, I promise. I just…” she said as her voice cracked, eyes watered. “I don’t know what to do. I don’t have anything. I don’t have anywhere to go. They were going to send me into the Red! I'm sorry. I shouldn’t have gotten you involved. I’ll go. I’m so sorry for what happened.”

Erika Bronton turned and began to walk away.

She was a beautiful girl, and I hated to see her cry. Even more, though, I hated the way she’d almost gotten me exiled from the city. I decided to let her keep walking.

Except, before she was more than ten feet away from me, she stopped and turned back. This time she was smiling.

“Wait,” she said. “Maybe it is a sign. Maybe this means something, you know? Like fate.”

“There’s no fate,” I said. “It’s getting dark anyway, and I need to be getting home.”

Erika walked back over to me and looked directly into my eyes. We were about the same height. I diverted my gaze to her full, curvaceous mouth, glistening where her tongue wet her lips.

"Tell me about yourself," she said. "Come on, I will walk with you."

I didn't really want her walking with me. First, I didn't know the area very well. Second, she might figure out where I lived.

Erika turned and pressed her shoulder into mine. She took a step forward, and I did too.

"I am a security guard, sort of. At Tasumec Tower." I pointed at the skyline of downtown Banlo Bay. "That big grey building."

"The tallest one?"

"That's the one."

"You must be very brave, to be a security guard," she cooed.

I laughed; at first reflexively, then again at the notion I might be brave. "You are the first person ever to think that. I just watch the security cameras all day, I don't even have a gun. What do you do?"

“I’m an artist,” she said, sounding very serious about it.

“I see."

“Some people don’t think it’s important anymore, the way things are,” she lifted her hands and presented Banlo Bay and its tenuous grip on order to me. “I think it’s even more important. If we forget about art, what do we have left?”

Our lives, for one.

She looked at me expectantly, so I asked her for more information. “Alright, so what kind of art do you do?”

“I’m a Situationalist,” she said. “You know, a performance artist—an actor. It’s like being in a play except everywhere is the stage and everyone is a performer whether they know it or not."

“For instance?” I asked.

“For instance, once I covered myself in fake blood and lay in an alleyway for two days straight. And then another time, I dressed up like Santa Claus and passed out toys straight from the shelves of department stores.”

“Sounds crazy,” I said honestly.

“I was involved in a sort of protest with my art once, and I got arrested for it. That’s why I had to give them a fake name. They won’t let me live here otherwise.”

“A protest?” I asked.

“It was noble, I promise. So, where do you live?"

Gulp. "Y'know, over there. What about you?"

"I'm homeless, since yesterday. Tonight will be my first night on the streets, you know. I hope I survive."

I sighed. Here it came. I tried to cut her off preemptively - I hadn't survived the collapse of the civilized world by falling for simple cons. "You know, I am barely surviving on my own. Probably going to lose the place soon, I just can't afford it. And it's a bad neighborhood, you know?"

We crossed another street. We were moving away from downtown, which meant things were getting progressively more dangerous. I never strayed; this girl was trouble.

Erika stopped walking, folded her arms. "I guess I'll just sleep here, then."

The brick building to our left was abandoned and boarded closed. Trash strewn the streets, and only bent and huddled figures clad in filthy clothes scurried in and out the alleys surrounding us. A far cry from the gleaming cleanliness of downtown, where I worked.

She turned and stepped over to the building, sitting down and resting her back against it. "This is home now." Her voice cracked.

"Well, good luck," I said.

She scoffed in disbelief. I turned and began walking away.

"You would just let me die out here?" she called. "What kind of man are you?"

"A survivor," I said.

I heard the dual click-clack of sandaled feet behind me; I thrust my hands into my pockets and kept walking forward. Not even sure where I was anymore, but I couldn’t go home with her following me.

"You just inspired me," she said, as though that meant something. I felt her shoulder rub mine again. "I have an idea for a Happening."

I sighed. "What's a Happening?"

“A piece of art that I do. Sometimes they last for months. I’m going to start a new project, and I need a subject. The way you saved me in there, the way you asked me to trust you—and then the way you abandoned me…I had this moment of inspiration, this divine spark. I know what my next piece will be, and you’re going to be it,” she said.

“No way. The spotlight is really not my thing, trust me.”

“No, look… just hear me out. I think what I want to do is, I want to pick one person—that's you—and just worship them for like half a year."

"Worship them?" I asked, not quite sure I wanted to understand what she was talking about.

"Yeah, you know, I'll believe everything they say or do must be absolutely correct, because that person will be God. Because maybe all that's important is devotion, you know? Hundreds of different types of believers across the Earth, and they all feel good about it. Maybe I can prove it doesn't matter who God is. Then, after it’s over, I'll write about how it worked out—I have to have publishing rights to the whole thing, not you—and bam! Good story, right?”

I fumbled through her feed.

“I’m trying to prove the act of believing in something is more important than what you believe in,” she offered.

“It’s a cool idea, I guess, but I’m not your guy. I’m not omnipotent - hell, I'm not even potent. Worshipping me is a terrible idea.”

She reached for my hand, squeezed it. I froze.

"You know what I am saying, right? I will do whatever you want. Anything. For months. Please, just don't make me sleep out here."

"Will you leave me alone?"

"Please, Clark. The police are going to find me, they're going to send me out into the Red. You know what happens to girls like me out there? We get raped, we become slaves. Would you do that to me?"

I have watched more terrible things happen to people than I care to remember. The only reason I wasn't one of them, was because of my ability to keep my mouth shut and stay hidden.

I began walking again.

“So, where do you live?” her cheery voice sounded off behind me.

It looked like she was going to Happen all over me whether I liked it or not.

“I’m not telling you,” I said, “because you’re not coming. I don’t know you. What am I doing even talking with you? I must be out of my mind.”

My ears were pricked by the howl of a dog; I turned to see if I could spot the animal. There was no trash on the streets; people knew it would invite trouble. The feral dogs were a big problem.

I hated dogs. People got bitten, torn up, infected, and died because of the beasts. Meningitis, rabies, bacteria… I’d heard even their ticks would get you killed.

“I’ll protect you,” she offered, noticing my nervous glances. She walked up close to me and put her arm around mine. “I’ll do anything for you. Anything."

It wasn’t comforting. Instead, it was another alien act in the day’s abduction that put me off center and made me nervous.

“I don’t understand why you’d want to do this. Do you just need a place to stay? I can let you stay with me, maybe for a night. You don’t have to do all this weird shit if you’re just desperate,” I said finally.

Erika stiffened. “Of course not. It’s an experiment, like I told you. I am not a beggar, I am an artist. What you are doing is the same as standing still so I can paint your portrait,” she reasoned.

So that’s how she kept her pride. Not a prostitute, just an actor playing one.

“Except you’ll be sleeping in my house. Eating my food.”

“Gods are supposed to provide for their worshippers.”

“For months, though, and you’ll be living with me.”

“It’s gotta be real. I will be the greatest devotee you’ve ever had, I swear. I'm a performance artist, and you're my next piece."

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