I just moved overseas to escape a marriage proposal. Being a sentient in a megalopolis is no picnic. A flat tire, a fender bender, civil servants, another mind reader who refers to himself as the disciple, and further nonsense put my sentient capabilities to the test.
Given my abilities, one might think I have it easy. Yes, sentience has its usefulness. I can convince or steal–although, is it truly a crime when people insist on handing me things?–my way into almost any situation.
Barely a week in the city and I’ve run into Jeremy five times already. Someone somewhere is trying to tell me something. I blame my friend Anton. She’s the one who donated two of my paintings for the auction. She’s the one who dragged me to Max’s barbecue. She’s the one with the damn white car. Tingles during kisses should be outlawed. The elusive Jeremy Mac menaces to my peace of mind. How am I supposed to trust him when I can’t read a single one of his thoughts?
I’ve met the strangest soul at City Hall. A sentient like me who refers to himself as the disciple. “I am, therefore, I can.” Well, not if I can stop you, sicko. Plane rides excluded, nothing and nobody scare me but frightened I am now. Amongst the hundreds who attended the art auction, I hunt the weirdo, with or without Jeremy’s help. I hatch up a simple plan: bring him to the cops or bring the cops to him. Why did I volunteer again?
I have a day job, and I earn plenty of cash with it. And then, I have my night job where I hunt criminals with Tom, my cop buddy. These days, we have a whores’ killer on the agenda. Ain’t my life grand?
I’m not the type to run after women, be they damn pixies. When I make one exception and go looking for Trica (strictly for the case), I can’t find her, and yet I keep bumping into her in the oddest places. I rescue her from the rain–who the hell buys a television in the middle of the night? Days later, Tom crashes into her friend’s car. Trica supposedly braked to save a cat (now AWOL). I suspect she was drunk that time (not that it stopped her from taking off again). Then, at City Hall’s benefit auction, after we toured the art pieces together, she tries to snick out without me. This time, I was expecting it, Pixie Darling. So it goes. What is the damn woman up to?
Dead whores found without signs of struggles, a killer who fancies blood outlines and leaves souvenirs; my job is turning into a fucking shitshow! I have no leads. Even Jeremy can’t get a fix on the bastard, nor can he tell if the sicko’s sentient or not. And what’s with my bud’s crappy mood anyway?
A killing in a back alley! Tom’s pushing it.
“Feel anything, Chris?” Tom asks.
“Feel? I’m not a damn psychic; I don’t fucking feel! I look and search and investigate just like you, a*****e.”
“Well, do you see or find or investigate anything?”
Chris absentmindedly rakes his hair, a habit of his betraying helplessness or frustration. Tonight it clearly is frustration. He shrugs.
“OK then, Chris, my man. Wanna get wasted? Might improve your foul mood.”
Tom isn’t exaggerating; he’s in a bad mood. Pissed as hell. The woman ran off again. Nowhere to be seen. The hotel staff doesn’t have a clue when she’s to return, and this time no one knows where the hell she went. He had searched her room, more thoroughly this time. The pixie doesn’t keep much, a few changes of clothes, and the damn television. The stereo’s still in its box. Since he also found an empty carry-on, he assumes the woman (probably) hasn’t run off to France again.