Insomnia

8

It looked like spaghetti western was the flavor of the month around here. Sawdust on the floors. The smell of whiskey and cheap cigars. The walls had been tastefully scorched with gunpowder burns. Saloon girls batted their eyes from upstairs. A plinking piano dashed out the same tired tune over and over and over again.

All in all a boring fantasy. And an even worse place for a meeting.

Esme stepped carefully around an unconscious drunk, and nodded as the background customers tipped their hats respectfully. A poker table in the back was her ultimate destination, surrounded in a nearly impenetrable haze of smoke. Esme coughed as she dragged in a chair from a neighboring table, scraping the dead wood with a terrible screech.

She sat down. There were four others seated. All Psions, including the dealer, some kid she'd never seen before. One of Max's lackeys, no doubt.

The remaining three were garbed in similar attire: Checkered shirts faintly stained with sweat. A ten gallon hat for one, stetsons for the rest. And spurs across the board, worn with visible awkwardness as they clanked gracelessly into the table legs. Esme didn't recognize one of the faces, a woman with high cheekbones and brown eyes.

The other two were familiar. On her left was Minerva. She'd styled her hair in some violent shade of green this week, spiked and coiled into what looked like a crown. The girl was about sixteen now, and minors were allowed to use false names in Somnus, for their own safety.

To the right was Maxwell Dragos. Light brown hair that sloped down his neck, the bangs slicked up against his forehead. Ice blue eyes. She didn't know much about his real world history. His family was wealthy through investments in Fantasian, rich enough to live in comfort on the moon. The face he presented in Somnus was close enough to the original. But his eyes were different here. Esme found the alterations cruel and cold. Perhaps that was his intent.

He was, after all, her prime suspect.

Max peeked over at her from behind a hand of cards. He smiled impishly then pouted when she didn't return the gesture.

"Is there a reason," sighed Esme, "that we're meeting in a saloon?"

"What?" asked Max. "I thought you'd appreciate this. Being southern and all."

Esme rolled her eyes.

"This is what the American west looked like. Hundreds of years ago."

Max blanched.

"Oh. Um. Sorry."

"Besides. There isn't a south anymore. Or a west. An east. A north. Hasn't been for decades." She snorted. "Another thing we have to thank the Disaster for. Not much meaning to geography. Screwed at every latitude."

Minerva and the woman she didn't know laughed at this remark.

"Rhymes," the woman said. "Nice."

"And you are?" asked Esme.

"Phoebe. Phoebe Zhang."

"Real name, I assume?"

"Turned eighteen a month ago. No other choice."

"How much creepy fan mail have you gotten so far?"

"Had to clear my inbox three times already," Phoebe said with a shudder.

"Sorry to hear that," said Esme. "Little advice? Shell out the money for private and public sessions. Delete or archive anything personal you've stored in Somnus before this point. Move, if they can find your address in there somewhere. And don't, I repeat, do not, open any dreams they send your way. That stuff's all bad news."