The Opportunity ✘ Rex Salazar; Generator Rex

1.00

"It's better to wake up now, little butterfly, because soon those dreams you have are going to turn into nightmares."
-Nicole Philips

In the dim lights of Sacred Grounds, Nice strummed her guitar, inflicting soothing sounds that blended and layered over her vocals. It wasn't that she was necessarily singing but more like humming along to the song, like a mother would do if she forgot the lyrics to a lullaby. And, just like that situation, Nice observes her surroundings with her ears - the substitution for her eyes, like the mother's hum to the lyrics.

With her ears, she could paint a picture that held more details than what her eyes could see. The baby sitting at table sixteen had a mild cold, the man at the bar was intensely focusing on writing a chapter for his novel, and even that someone unusual had entered the coffee shop.

From the group of girls that sat at booth three, she could tell that it was an attractive person, probably a male from the constant chatter that the teens had a made about recent boyfriends, and he was seemingly foreign too, due to the pitch and speed of their words.

Even though the girls stayed fairly interested, Nice, on the other hand, continued to play, her ears trained on the boy, Raphel, he had said (though she knew it was a pseudonym due to his hesitance to say it), but her brain was connected firmly with her fingers and her knowledge of the notes that she was playing. To most, it would seem overwhelming but when you're taught at least one hundred, twenty-six ways to kill a nation's leader, that seemed just like child's play.

In a way, Nice could say that her intelligence was the only thing that kept her alive all these years.

The chime of the door cut off as the door closed, leaving Nice standing in the slowly falling snow, a guitar case held in her unprotected hand. In her pocket, she could feel seven continuous buzzes, Elmo was being particularly needy that day. Deciding that it would be best to ignore her "uncle" (he would simply yell his head off at her), she flipped up the fur-lined hood, starting to trudge forward through the sinking snow.

Her walk, in short, seemed impossibly long and tiring. Her footsteps required more effort and consideration - the quicksand-like deah wasn't going to get her now - and her face burned from the invading, nipping cold. But, even though she was in misery, she didn't stop to tighten herself or even check her phone, at least eight set of seven buzzes. That was simply because of the crunching of snow that followed after her.

She had hoped that by the time she crossed Via Mazzini and S. Angelo that the person following her would have given up on her trek but no, they just had to be overly determined on keeping close to her, even if it met exposing themselves (which it did, exactly twelve minutes and forty-three seconds ago). In that time, she had simply wondered, her mood dropping from somewhat calm to borderline murderous.

"Kill me," she muttered in English, curling her numb fingers around the handle of her case, stopping and turning her head to look at the brightly-lit motel next to her, the only one in the area. In her pocket, her phone buzzed again, call number thirty-seven today. In her mind, she quickly formulated a plan, turning on her heel and walking into the building.

Once inside, Nice strolled up to the front desk, putting on a confused face and fake accent. "Uh, cee-ow," she broke the word apart, like she was a foreign. Her American blood helped her fit the role a bit better, "Lo soon q-qui per visid-visitare qual-qualcuno." (I'm here to visit someone)

"I can speak American too," the girl at the desk said, her voice heavily accented, "who are you searching for?"

Nice molded her face into one of relief, letting out an embrassed chuckle as she glanced her eyes over to the mirror behind her, watching as the person who was stalking after her was standing outside of the door, not entering. Then she glanced down, catching a name on a suitcase of a person walking up to the elevator.

In her mind, she wanted to smile with pride but instead, she turned to the attendant, keeping a steady look on her face as she answered with, "William Friar." By the sudden stiffen of her body, the way her hands clenched into fist, Nice could tell that she was suddenly very nervous. After all, anyone who knew he was, knew that people around him were extremely important.

"Actually," Nice said as she turned her eyes to the mirror, quickly flickering them back to the attendant's, "while you do that, can I go use the bathroom?" Her hand froze on the way to the phone, nodding and directing her.

"To the left of the elevators."

She nodded, thanking her and then heading in that direction, entering the womens' room. Once in there, she ducked down, checking under each stall before heading back to the door and locking it. Then, she turned to the window, pulled herself up, and then proceeded to slid her way through the small window.

As Nice walked in the older parts of town, she took out her phone, flipping it open to see the messages clear on the screen. The ones closest to the bottom said things like "where are you?" (She ignored his infuriating habit of using all lower-caps) and "fine, don't answer" than the texts started to more worrying, turning into things like "don't come home" and "it's not safe".

When she finally read through them, her phone started to buzz in her hands, flashing a quick photo of a man with salt-and-pepper hair and an uneven mustache. It also included a name.

Answering the call, she pressed her flip-phone to her ear, answering with a controlled "Hello" as soon as she heard raspy breathing on the other end.

"'I've got your toys, Eight'," she heard Elmo choke out, on the verge of crying. In the background, she could heard a scream from Luisa, his daughter, "'come and get them.'" Then the phone called ended, a beep ringing in her ear. Unknowingly, her fist clenched and a single name ran through her head.

White Knight...