Chapter 12 part 1

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Chapter 12

The stool creaked out a warning as Bryan eased down onto it.  He pulled his fingers away from the counter and felt several of them stick to the many years of aerosolized grease residue.

The owner of the diner, impossibly thin for a man who fried food for a living, waited with pad in hand.  Bryan glanced at the menu more out of obligation than necessity.  His order never changed.  "Whole.  No fries."  No matter how many times he came in, the owner would still put fries in the pita if he didn't mention it.  The rest of the sandwich would hold up as it cooled, but the fries would be disgusting by the time he got around to eating it.

"Extra hummus instead?"

Bryan nodded.  "To go."

Bryan waited alone a long moment, closed his eyes and let the sensations of the diner sink into him: crackling from the deep fryer, the smell of garlic.  Each crease of the vinyl on his seat, each chip on the edge of the counter was where it had been for the last two years.  He'd only come here late at night, but he imagined it would still be dingy in the daylight.  He didn't mind though.  Every texture and smell slowed his mind.  He'd found this restaurant after the fire, once he'd started eating again.  He never went to any of the old places he had loved to eat at.  Not without Claire and the baby. 

But he didn’t miss those places.  While he was here, breathing came easier. 

He turned on the protesting stool, stood and passed by the young woman he'd noticed on the way in.  She sat with her knees huddled up to her chest, back to the wall.  Bryan's mind processed the evidence.  Worn clothing, in need of a shower, furtive; she was probably a runaway.  Probably already addicted to some substance or other, though she didn't look haggard enough to be on anything too hard.  She slammed her eyes shut as he passed, jerked her head away as he went down the hall to the back of the diner.

He turned the men's room doorknob and clicked on the light as he entered.  He spun a tight one-eighty in the uncomfortably small lavatory, tilted up the lid and started to unzip.  Through the door came the ding of the entry bell, then voices.

"Shut up!"

"In the bag."

"You!  Sit down!"

"I said put the money in the bag!  Now!"

"Crap," Bryan said.  It sounded like at least two men, maybe a third.  He zipped back up and pulled the Glock 9mm from under his shoulder.  A deep breath, then he closed his eyes and listened, hand on the door knob.  "Gotta get the bad guy."

 *

From outside the diner, William could see them.  He paused a moment to watch.  The fog swirled in and out of the diner, but within it he could see the three men, each with a bargain bin ski mask yanked down over his head.  One red, one blue and one striped in green and yellow. 

A small smile flickered on his face before the fog took over, muted the ugly colors of the third mask.  "Not even I'd wear that."

He stepped forward, saw the diner owner’s outline was filled with a swirl of cold, frightened colors as he stuffed a paltry stack of bills into a paper sack.  William pulled the door open.

Each of the three hooded men snapped a quick look at William as he stepped in and let the glass door swing shut behind him.  Stripes, closest, pivoted and raised his revolver to William's eye level.  William glanced at it briefly, but a bright pulse of color past the three men drew his attention.  There was someone behind them, sitting at a table.

The young woman had crammed herself back against the wall, curled up and inched back as far as she could.  Not away from the robbers, but from William.  A storm of colors flashed out from her physical outline into the space around her.  It twisted, unfolded into rough bodies.  William blinked.

She saw them.  She could see the voices.  The rough forms stayed close to her, looked at William and the voices he was used to.  She had voices of her own.

The Caretaker hovered near the girl, drew her focus from William for a moment as The Advisor and The Hunter studied the three robbers.  Another beacon of color and William snapped his eyes to Stripes.  A wisp of energy rushed from the man's head down through his arm, hand and trigger finger into the gun.

The Hunter had barely drawn a target on the man's abdomen before William's knee jerked up high and powered the bottom of his foot straight out at Stripes' stomach.  The push kick slammed Stripes back and sent him skidding along the floor toward the men's room.

Red clawed for the bag of cash in the owner's hands as the yarn mouth of Blue's ski mask stretched into an incredulous O.  "What the hell?" the man said as he raised his gun.  The swirling colors jumped from his arm to lance through his intended target, William's head.

There was more movement back by the men's room, but William dropped beneath the line of fire and pounded his shoulder into Blue's knee caps.  His hands hooked and jerked the man's ankles forward for a jolting take down.  Blue toppled backward, arms wheeling as his base was chopped from beneath him.  His gun clacked and clattered to the young woman's table and down by her feet, but her eyes were locked on William again.

The Hunter dove in, showed William the path up the man's body.  William clambered up, posted a knee on Blue's chest.  The Hunter spun around the man.  William followed, hooked his hand around Blue's upraised arm at the triceps and spun a tight stationary circle until the trapped arm was tight against his chest.  William jerked his hips forward and Blue's elbow shattered with the sound of a champagne cork.  The man howled briefly and curled up fetal as William rose to face Red.

Through the fog, William watched the last robber's eyes dart past him to the front door.  He obviously wanted out.  Color drained from Red's outline and he dropped the gun.  William took one step.  Another.  Red shuffled backward and stopped with a jolt.

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