Ven: Part 2

Ch. 6 Q's and A's and more Q's

The ceiling has 24 distinct craters in it.

It's full of little divots.

But 24 are distinct.

What makes them distinct though?

They're bigger than the others.

They've got a shape to them.

I like them.

"Ven!"

I slowly roll my head forward.

I stare down the table.

The far end is pushed up against the barrier between us and computer boy.

He's currently meticulously piecing together a computer.

Monda, Marney, Jacob, Vick, and several Turncoat members sit around the table.

They all stare at me expectantly.

"Yeah?" I say uneasily.

"If we could have your attention, that would be great," says one of the turncoats.

She sits with her back dead straight, her hair in a tight bun, and clothes that hang off her.

Her name is Kaki.

Or Jackie.

I don't remember.

"Why though?" I ask.

"You're the leader of the Caravan Palace, aren't you?" She accuses.

"Well, I mean, technically," I scratch my head, "but Vick keeps everything in order."

"He's the responsible one," Marney points at Vick, "and he's the hero," she points at me.

"I'm the muscle," I correct her.

"You make the big decisions." Vick says stiffly.

"Also true," I reply. "Is this a big decision?"

"This is about allying with us," Monda says cheerily.

"Well then sure, let's do it," I shrug, "I want access to everything."

"We can't ju-" The woman begins.

"I'll tell you everything I can," computer boy pipes up, a finished computer sitting before him.

"Sounds good," I beam. "Am I needed for anything else?"

"Well there is-" Monda begins.

"Neat, I leave you in the very capable hands of Vick, Jacob, and Marney," I interrupt, "Meeting adjourned! Everybody out!"

Monda flashes a smile, Vick nods curtly, Marney rolls her eyes, Jacob fidgets uncomfortably, the woman with the baggy clothes and good posture turns her nose up at me, the other Turncoat members look impressed.

They all file out of the room.

Computer boy stands at the edge of the repellent wall, his eyes fixed on the computer in his hands.

I sit at the far end of the table staring at his face.

He's thin, his complexion a deathly white, his clothes seem tight and constricting.

"What would you like to know?" He asks dismissively.

"What's your name?" I ask.

I lean back in my chair and place my hands behind my head, my feet coming up to rest atop the table.

"I had a name once," he replies, "it loses meaning when you disappear like me."

"So, then, what do I call you?" I press.