He's young, and I can tell he's trying to grow a decent beard, and failing miserably. I can't sit in front of him… There are no chairs. I stand there, but he doesn’t look up from his paper work. A cough is lost in the din of the office natter… Finally, I give in and tap his shoulder.

He looks up, eyes a peculiar gray, and he studies me, looking at my wrists, probably for handcuffs. Satisfied I'm not an escaped convict, he rises from his chair slightly. "Can I, uh, help you?"

I shake his hand, taking comfort in the fact that it isn't clammy or sweaty or too hard… A nice, human hand, connected to a nice human, who was going to help me. "Well, something happened at Carnal Capers last night… Is there some sort of official report on that? Because the networks are kind of glossing it over, right now."

He smirks underneath his mangy blond beard, and I can see him trying to figure out which table I danced at. "I had friends there," I growl, and the smirk fades back to a semi-serious frown.

"There was a stabbing there, that much you should know from the news, right?" He began scribbling on his tablet as I nodded. "Well, there were a bunch of casualties, a whole slew of injuries… One of the dancers was mixed in with the wrong crowd… A gang plant. She was milking--" That smirk again… He's a cop, but that doesn't stop me from wanting to slug him, and sending his rat nest of a beard into orbit. "Milking him for info and blathering it to another leader. Poor kid was a mess…"

"Amy," I say, my tongue dry, and he looks up. "Her name… It wasn't Amy… was it?"

Joe Friday shrugs. "Didn't have one. We couldn't find an ID, and no one's had time to ID her."

"ID?"

"Yeah. Got her throat slit from ponytail to ponytail. You don't walk away from a cut like that."

I realize I'm shaking as the chair begins to shudder from my presence. I will myself to stop, almost succeeding. He takes his time looking me over, categorizing every blink, every shudder from me, stacking them into neat piles that make me either mourner or suspect. "You ever been to the Capers?" I nod my head tightly, and he adopts a sympathetic frown. "Then I'd like to ask you to ID the girl… Anyone else that was there either ended up in a body bag, hospital bed, or fled the scene." I feel myself nod again, as if he has some mind trick that he can do, taking over control of my body. He rises, motions for me to follow him, and, under his spell, I do. It must be a spell, or super-sensitive microwave rays. I hate dead bodies. I hate death. And most of all, I hate blood.

Joe Friday (I begin to wonder what his real name is) leads me into a room, steel and frosted, the air leeching the warmth from my body. He checks the labels, stuck in the upper right hand corner of each door, frowning as he tries to remember which Jane Doe it was. There are fifteen Does associated with that night. I pray he doesn't have me ID them all.

He finds her, cracks open the door, and rolls out a tray holding, of course, a black bag. It's limp, wrinkled, nearly empty… Must just be a wisp of a girl inside of it. I think about Amy, her tiny, bending body, and try to project her on the hint of a form within. Maybe… Maybe…

The zipper sticks, and he has to use some muscle to yank it down. When he does, the whole back jumps, and the girl's head pops out, lolling, throat gaping open meatily. I swallow hard, and thank who ever is in charge this celestial shift for not letting me get breakfast this morning.

Her hair… her hair is dark, and I feel a sick elation at the silky, straight tresses. She has olive skin, a rarity these days… High cheek bones, and my guess is that her eyes would have been dark as well, were they open. I remember her… the girl that had been at what used to be table five. Not a great dancer, but good looking enough… She had been at the table with the dark men…

I shake my head, motioning, begging, for him to zip it up again. "No," I say, hoarse. "I don't know her name… She was a dancer." I begin to shiver, and he leads me out.

"That's a lot of people dead over one double crosser," I say as he leads me out of the morgue.

He nods. "Things kind of went to hell in a hand basket fairly quick… Some other gang lept into the fray, people didn't dodge fast enough… This kind of thing was pretty typical three secs down a few years ago, but is beginning to creep up here." He looks disgusted as we find his desk again, and he settles into his chair with a sigh. "Ma'am… The rest of the bodies… As you saw, we have more than a few… Care to look—" I shake my head vehemently, and he sighs. "Well, we can always drag the owner down here tomorrow. Thanks, anyway." He scribbles something on Jane Doe 1376's file and stuffs it back in his IN tray.

"Charlie?" I say shakily. "You… You know where he is?"

"Well, yeah… protective custody, Alma Durur Sector Hospital."

I nod dumbly, turning and making for the door. He grabs my elbow first though, stopping

me dead. "Miss Cherry? Before you go?" He taps my pocket, the one containing my ID card. I

stare at him blankly, not getting his meaning. "Your card? I may need to contact you later... You

are associated with the place, aren't you?"

"I am, but... I've only been there twice..."

"Even so... This will save everyone trouble later on down the road, and you don't want

trouble, do you?" I shake my head, and even though I know this is most likely the stupidest thing

I could be doing right now, I hand him my card. He scans it, records it, and hands it back. It's

only then I note the brass-like nameplate on his desk, and I nearly cry supressing the urge to

laugh.

E. Ness'

I've only been in a few hospitals... The only happy occassion was the one when I was

born, and I don't even remember that. So saying that, I have a good reason to hate the sight of the

white and green signs, and drearily mauve walls. Our sector's hospital used to be lauded for it's

efficiency and nearly humane staff, but now, the cheery bulliten boards haven't been updated in

over a year, and the staff is the same, surly flesh shoved into different molds.

Charlie doesn't have the flow to get his own room... and if those tapes bar his entrance for

too much longer, he won't have the flow to stay here, even. I find him, after poking in and out of

births, deaths, coughing fits, teary reunions, bleary eyed elderly, snot nosed children.... I find him

strapped into bed, head wrapped in gause, one eye puffy and blackened shut. I ignore the

blathering females one bed over, or, at least, I try to, and take up his hand.

"Char?" I whisper. "Charlie? You okay? It's Cherry... I've come to see how you're

doing."

He stirs, groaning a little bit, and his left eye, the good one, opens. He smiles, and I see

one of his teeth have gone missing. "Cherry... Hell of a night, huh?"

"What happened, Charlie? Was it the Black Hand? What are you doing letting people like

that into your bar? You must have known something like this was going to happen!"

"Cherry, you've been holed up too long. S a different world now, doll. Man's got a make

a dollar. Girls take most of the tips they make, and people just don't drink like they used to...

You've always had your fingers upstairs, where the rich folks are. Me, I got to deal with whoever

walks in my door. When it was you kids, I could be a nice, friendly place, with smart posters on

the wall and plenty of cheap beer on tap. The Hands walk in, and I've got to take out the funny

stuff, bring in the girls and liquor. It's how you survive."

I growl and poke at his black eye, causing an impressive streak of curses to rush out of

him. "Some survival!"

He swats my hand, and it stings less than I expect it too. "Damn artists... This is the real

world, Cherry. This is where the rest of us have to live. Artists don't think nothing of dying. They

got a legacy built right in... What do I have when I go? A stack of bills someone's got to pay,

that's what I have left."

I should be mad, but what's the point? He's right... He's an aging man with one purpose,

and that purpose has just turned and bit him. I take up his hand again, rubbing the knuckles.

Suddenly, I wish I had taken up and acted on one of my impulses back before I got sick... Gotten

into what was behind the bar, the apron, the button up shirt. Vanity stops us, though... An artist's

constant companion, and ultimate downfall. "You got me, Char. At least you have that." He

laughs at that, and I feel a hint of pressure as he finally squeezes my hand back.

There is an easy moment between us, where the colors seem softer, the air seems a bit

warmer, and not so medicinal. There is a darkness tinging it, though, and I know where it's

coming from: the dark space in my mind.

"Charlie," I start, not fully willing to banish the ease from the room, "How much do you

remember about last night?"

He shakes his head painfully, wincing as muscles rebel their weary master. "Couldn't tell

you if I wanted to, Cherry. After Duke fell, a brawl broke out, and someone clocked me with an

ashtray... At least, I think it was an ashtray. Hurt like hell. I woke up here, with a swarm of suits

around me... You got through it okay, didn't you? Not a mark on you, kid."

I rub my arm, neck tensing up with a sudden rush of discomfort. "So I noticed, Char. So I

noticed..." I trail off, and he studies me, with his one, red eye.

"Cherry? How'd you know I was here?"

"The police... I stopped in when I saw the tape. A guy called Ness' told me you'd be

here."

"Oh... Did he say Duke was here too? Kid's going to be needling me for workman's

comp, you know." He sighs heavily, and I look away, pulling my hand back. Silence sits about us

for several minutes, heavy, bringing the room back to its dull mauves and tired teal trims.

"He's dead, isn't he?" he asks quietly, and I shrug.

"I can't tell you, but I think he is... Only one I know for sure is one of the dancers... She

was what started the whole mess. Dark girl, danced for your mafia friends..."

"They're no friends of mine, Cherry. They're just--"

"Just what? Business partners?" He glares at me, but doesn’t deny it.

"Real people aren’t given a choice sometimes, Cherry. That’s the way it is." He doesn’t bother reclaiming my hand as a nurse steps in and informs me visiting hour is over. I stand, looking down at him sadly, at the havoc reality deals to people. Almost against my will, I lean down and kiss his cheek.

"I’ll come see you tomorrow, okay? I’ll even scrape up some flowers next time." Before he can tell me it’s a stupid idea, and not to waste my money, I turn and run out.

It isn’t until I hit the street, crying because I’m relieved he lived, and sobbing because Roddy’s is dying the final death, that I realize I still don’t know what happened to me last night.