"You really should have thought this through better," I say, walking to the windows. God I hate this city. I hate this whole fucking state. New York. The city never sleeps. I hum the notes of the song, staring out.
"Please—listen please—I didn't know—," the man crawls across the floor, blood dripping from his eyes where I gouged them out.
"You were warned," I say, turning around slowly from the window.
"Why? Why me?" He sobs, "Please— I have a family—,"
"I really don't care. You see. I don't," I say, staring out across the blinking city lights. So many mind pulsing below me. And this man's pain. So soothing. "You once worked on a project. D'you remember it? Of coruse you do."
"Please—,"
"Harvesting the brains of mutants. Telepaths. Well. Just here to return the favor, love," I say.
"No—no—," he screams as I rip his brain from his skull. Smashing it against the ceiling of the pent house. It turns out crime pays. Very well.
I walk around the mess neatly, carefully putting on my rubber gloves. I check my watch. Ten minutes to midnight. My flight is in a few hours.
"You feel better now?" Cane asks, leaning against the door. He's thinking of food.
"You're always thinking of food."
"You're being judgmental after splattering brains across someone's ceiling?"
"It was his brains and ceiling, which make it fine," I smile, as I walk out the door past him. He closes it and locks it. "Let's get out of this godforsaken country."
"How much?"
I laugh.
"How much, Rowan?"
"Two fifty."
"Thousand?"
"Million, crime pays, love," I say, showing him my phone.
"Jesus," he says.
"Oh he's not involved I shouldn't think. Even so. I want to be in Oxford watching the morning rowers re-assessing my sexuality by this time tomorrow," I say, "What do you say?"
"God yes, I hate this country," he says, as we step off the elevator. I take off my sweatshirt as we walk outside, tossing it into the nearest garbage bin. They're collecting now. It'll be long gone. I toss my gloves and hat as well. Short sleeved band shirt, and plentiful tattoos on my arms I look like a normal pedestrian. I know no one glances twice.
"You were seriously born here?" Cane asks.
"Institution, like the one that man pulled his victims from," I say. But for a nurse's sympathy.
"I'm saying you don't act American."
"I can act American. I can act great American," I say, in a slightly more London accent.
"You sound like a twat."
"You sound like a twat shh," I stop, closing my eyes, "You hear that yet or is it just in people's heads?"
"What is it?" He asks.
I smile, "Screaming."
The end