West watched the man and woman sparring.

Both had dark skin; hers, darker, and he kept resisting the urge to lean forward for a better view. Leaning towards holes in Space didn't actually get you any closer, after all.

I should say something.

But he wouldn't. He didn't. Butterfly wings. Or pebbles thrown into a pond, the ripples spinning outward to stir leaves on the water. It was a bad comparison. The surface of water was two dimensional, and things like this... were in four. He sighed as his thoughts turned towards Time, and he closed the hole.

Another hole could have been made, one he could have passed through; instead, he took a bus. A finger flicked at the corner of an envelope in his suit pocket until it was dog-eared and his fingertip tender.

...

He wasn't even surprised that there was an appointment scheduled for him.

He closed the door behind him, glanced at a chair, but remained standing. He'd known she wouldn't be so melodramatic as to wear black, or anything absurd, but there was a tiredness to the eyes that regarded him over the paper coffee cup. There was no lid. Evidence.

"The Kingmakers."

Her words had been the most effective ones she could have used, and there had been no preamble. A hundred times before, he'd shrugged, looked away... felt awkward. This time, his eyes met hers firmly, and he smiled slightly.

"You should have been a sniper."

For once, it was her turn to shrug, and a finger tapped the rim of the cup.

"I can't even imagine how far away you could smell a latte in the jungle," she answered. An eyebrow arched, demanding an answer.

"I get too close. Look at the last one."

She shook her head slightly, and her eyes moved up and away. The effort had been made.

"Go fuck yourself, James."

He nodded. He got it. Aside from the obvious, his answer hadn't been the most diplomatic, all things considered. Everything else, though, was -- obvious. She knew what he wanted; what had been taken, and it had been the answer to one of her very first questions.

"Told Kai yet?" The eyes found him again.

He shook his head. "Not going to. Just you."

It was something. They both knew it. A concession, a token, an acknowledgement. Something.

...

The shovel he used was old and rusted. The revolver he used had a patina that was graying it. That's what happened. Tools, weapons -- they had a purpose. Over time, they became less capable. Their purpose was best served when ready.

And he was.

Someone take these dreams away,
That point me to another day,
A duel of personalities,
That stretch all true realities.

That keep calling me,
They keep calling me,
Keep on calling me,
They keep calling me.
- joy division