Tk Worf

1

It's raining.

The water pouring out of the sky feels dirty even before it hits the ground, gritty and grimy like everything else in this city. It sluices into the gutters and mixes with God only knows what other filth, lifting and floating discarded food wrappers, newspaper ads, and other bits of refuse. Even a thunderstorm can't wash these streets clean.

The rain pounds over your black umbrella, splashing you with stray drops as you half walk, half jog down the street. A street sign swims up out of the sheeting rain as you near the corner: 14th and Martin.

You stare stupidly up at the sign for a second, slack-jawed. Your heart, already racing, starts thudding like a hammer in your chest. A fat, grimy drop of water drips off the edge of your umbrella and down the back of your neck, breaking your bemusement with a violent shudder.

Great. Just great.

It's your first day of work, it's raining, and you're about to be late. And now you're pretty sure you're lost.

Taking a deep breath, you step off the sidewalk and into the street, raising your hand to hail a cab. Your black loafers soak through immediately, chilling your feet to the bone and making you wince; they cost more than you could really afford, but you can't show up to your new job in ratty sneakers. A discarded newspaper wraps around your ankle for a second. You glance down and half the headline ("LYCANTHROPE-RIGHTS BILL—") jumps out at you before the rushing water pulls it off and away toward the gutter. Congress has been debating the upcoming bill about civil rights for werewolves off and on for a year now, and they're no closer to a deal than when they started.

You don't have to wait long before a cheerfully yellow cab flashes its lights at you and pulls to the side of the road. But you've barely taken two steps toward it when a woman steps off the street in front of you, heading for your cab.

Your only chance of making it to work on time is if you get moving right now. How are you going to convince her to let you have it?

You duck under her waving arm…and step right into a puddle. You don't let that stop you, though. You stride boldly into the street, reaching the cab just ahead of her.

She looks down at your soaked pant cuffs and says, "If you wanted it that badly, you could have just said something."

Dripping and demoralized but victorious, you slide into the backseat of the cab. "Twenty-third and Washington," you tell the driver. "As fast as possible, please."

The cab pulls away from the curb in a muddy wave, weaving in and out of traffic in a way that makes you decidedly nervous, given the way the cabbie is looking at you in the rearview mirror instead of at the road. You huddle into your wet clothes and watch the windshield wipers flop rhythmically back and forth, trying not to check the time every five seconds.

The radio is tuned to a couple of talking heads debating civil rights for lycanthropes. "Werewolf rights are human rights," one of them says, but she's interrupted by the other shouting, "You want a wolfman teaching your kids? Maybe staying late to help them with their homework while that full moon is rising? Is that what you want?"

"What's the big hurry?" the cab driver asks. The cab cuts across two lanes to make a sudden right turn, leaving a cacophony of horns and screeching brakes in its wake.

"New job," you say. "And I'm late."

The cabbie makes a sympathetic face at you in the rearview mirror. "I hope the job's worth it."

"It is," you say, trying not to grab the ceiling handle as the cab starts to fishtail in the half-flooded intersection. I asked him to go fast, after all. "I'm in politics—it's a reelection campaign. I'm going to work for…"