Tip

## Meta

**Timing:** morning, same day as "Intruder"

**Setting:** park, fancy hotel, fancy hotel's penthouse level, Liu's penthouse; all central Sydney

## Text

You slide onto the park bench next to the guy with the newspaper, tilt your head back. "You know this ain't a spy movie, ay?"

Paper rattles and Ed says, "Indulge me."

Snort.

"You need a mobile," he gripes. "Been waiting an /**hour**."

"Fresh air's good for you."

Ed sniffs. "Mal called."

"Fresh meat {or one of the usual subjects}?"

"{She says it's a new client.} Just showed up; paid for a week in cash. Our favourite room, so we can do this same as before." >they'd be even bigger idiots than they are on this occasion to hit the same people in the same penthouse more than once.<

Frown. "You're /**sure** you wanna do this the usual way?"

"Why /**wouldn't** we?"

Roll your eyes. "Guys who can drop that kinda cash don't fuck around, Ed."

"That's just it! */**C*****ash**, brother! Means he has more of it and it's probably dirty so he won't go running to the cops!" Grins maniacally, crows, "Cash. And. Carry."

Grumble, "Got a bad feeling about this."

Ed leans in close. "You've forced my hand, Jones." Looks you right in the eye over tacky, 'I'm a white American tourist' sunglasses. "You /**owe** me."

Scoff, "For what?"

"Bollixing that beach house job."

"That /**wasn't** /**my** /**fault**!" you hiss. "How was I supposed to know there was a goddamn /**cat**?!"

"Recon's /**your** thing, remember?"

Glare.

Ed smiles sweetly.

"If this goes sour, I'm gift-wrapping you for the police."

Grins. "Stop worrying, mate. It'll be a milk run."

"Fine," you snap.

"Swell." Ed folds his newspaper, stands. "Let's get this over with."

"/**Now?**"

"Why not?"

"It's not even ten!"

"So what? No one's ever home this early." Spins on his heel. "Chop chop, Jones!"

Huff, push to your feet.

"Synchronize watches?" Ed checks his. "Twenty minutes?"

"Fifteen."

Melt into the sparse crowd, leave the park; Ed goes one way, you go another.

Three block stroll to the building.

Up the fire escape across the alley.

Gloves go on.

Jump the gap to the balcony.

Pop the French door, close and lock the door, cross the room, out the door, into the stairwell.

Up, up, up to the penthouse level.

Relax on the landing for exactly three minutes.

Step into the hall as Ed hops out of the elevator.

Quirk an eyebrow.

Mimes turning out his pockets.

Roll your eyes.

Pull out the tools.

Off comes the handle, the lock face, the battery wire.

Back on go the plate, the handle.

Ease the door open.

Peachy keen.

Gesture, 'after you,' to Ed.

He steps through, scans, gives the all clear.

You follow, aim for the cabinet in the dining area.

Ed makes makes straight for the safe in the bedroom closet.

You have the first drawer open—

A /*clang-thud* from the bedroom—

~\*\*\*~

You're back a moment later.

Sitting at the table.

Oooookay.

Ooooow.

With a /**whanging** headache.

Scope the scene further.

Correction: You're pinned to the table.

With a knife through your hand.

At least it's your left hand pinned to the table with a knife.

That screaming is probably Ed in the bedroom.

And you're pinned to the table with a knife through your hand.

You're pinned to the light wood table with a pearl-handled knife, its blade glowing and your blood bright red in the sun.

You're pinned to the goddamn table with a motherfucking /**knife** /**through** /**your** /**motherfucking** /**hand**.

You scream.

A little.

"Oh, shut up, Buttercup," snaps a well-dressed, probably Chinese, person, strolling from the bedroom. "I didn't hit anything crucial."

You manage a grin. "You're a fan, then."

The person snorts. "Hardly." Pops something up off an end table, heads back to the bedroom.

You're going to /**kill** Ed.

"About your hand ...." Tosses the something in the air— "I wouldn't move too much if you want to keep it that way." —catches a butterfly knife.

If this person doesn't finish you both off first.

Swallow.

Door clicks shut.

Okay.

Control your breathing.

Deep breath in.

And ... out.

Good.

Oxygen means you can think straight.

As straight as you can anyway, with the whole /**knife** thing.

Pulling it out will make it bleed worse and you might nick something important.

Best move?

Relax, keep breathing.

Save your strength for one /**really** good break when you know /**exactly** what the fuck's going on.

Nothing to do but wait, then.

So you wait, conjuring up a mental Ed and sticking it with pins.

Lots of pins.

Fifty-seven pins, at last count, with the latest right in the—

"You're still conscious," says the stabby person.

"This?" Tilt your head at the /**goddamn** /**knife**. "Kinda hard to sleep through."

"You'd be surprised."

"You'd know."

"I would." Stabby smiles like a shark.

Wonderful.

A motherfucker who knows what they're doing.

You're going to kill Ed so hard [people who look like him will have near-death experiences].

"So, great, you caught us." Shrug the shoulder not linked to the hand with the /**fucking** /**knife** through it. "Skewered me. Did ... /**something** to that /**dumbass**. Now what?"

"Now, I find out what you know." Settles into the chair opposite you with the grace of a monarch.

"About you?"

Stabby nods, almost 'pray, continue'.

Who even talks like that?

"Clearly, I do."

"You can't read minds."

"Should I make this more difficult?"

"Right." Swallow. "You stay in your penthouse in the middle of the day, you carry knives, you're quiet enough I didn't hear you sneaking up on me, and you fucking /**stabbed** me." And some other thing ...?

Stabby almost smiles. "I needed a moment with Mr Clark and didn't want to ruin a scarf."

"You didn't want—" Seriously?

Stabby /**does** smile.

Right! "And you have a partner in the bedroom."

Stabby's eyes go dark.

"You have a partner who bashed Ed? When you got me? Unless you're a ninja?"

"You're conflating East Asias."

"Also trying not to die."

"What else are you trying to do, Mr Jones?"

"Mostly not die."

Stabby leans forward. "Why this room? Why today? Why mid-morning?"

Shrug one-sided again. "Dumbass's the one got the tip. I owed him a favour, he wanted to go right away, I tagged along."

"Who gave him the tip?"

"Mal, a chick at the front desk. She calls Ed when someone checks in; we take her out to dinner if we score."

"When someone checks in ...?"

"To the suite. This suite."

"Why wouldn't Miss Iyengar call you?"

"No phone."

"How did you come to owe Mr Clark a favour?"

"A job in the Bay Area went south. They had a cat that screamed bloody murder when tripped over and it turns out I'm a cat magnet."

"Sounds like cats in general."

"Good to know. I never want to see another one for the rest of my life."

"Best of luck with that, Mr Jones."

Shrug—wince.

Stabby presses the pads of their fingers together. "If Mr Clark is correct—and I have no reason to believe otherwise—you 'tagging along' means evading external and internal security, reaching the twentieth floor, and defeating the electronic lock on this suite in approximately ten minutes."

"Sounds about right."

Stabby leans back.

The room's getting a little chilly.

Best wrap this up.

"So yea, that's all I know about you."

Stabby nods thoughtfully.

"Think you could unstick me now? It's been nice and all, but."

"Whyever would I do that?" Mostly puzzlement, faint amusement.

"Plenty of reasons and I'm pretty sure you've already decided on what to do."

Stabby sprawls in their chair. "Convince me."

Your insides run away screaming.

Stabby doesn't prompt you, doesn't tell you to hurry.

Okay, they're toying with you. Got the memo.

Deep breath. "If I sit here much longer, I /**will** fall asleep. What if I never wake up? You don't seem the sort who wants to explain a dead guy to the police or to deal with hauling my corpse down the stairs."

Stabby chuckles. "And what should I do with Mr Clark?"

"Whatever you want." Grin. "I see him after this, he'll wish you did something worse than ... whatever you did."

Stabby appraises you.

Appraise Stabby back.

"Very well." Stabby flows to their feet, glides around the table.

Knife slides out of your hand.

You do. not. yelp.

"A bit of advice, Mr Jones." Stabby gently wraps your hand in a red handkerchief—a red /**silk** handkerchief.

Classy.

"Our world is rapidly developing an unfriendliness for illegal fighters." Ties off a knot. "There are bigger forces at work and worse places to spend time than prison."

"One of them is here." Stand, tuck the hand in a pocket, mostly succeed in walking a straight line to the door.

Stabby walks with you. "I recommend keeping your head down for the next few years." Opens the door, gestures, 'after you.'

Step into the hall, turn back.

"Spot me some cash for a cab to Emergency?"

Stabby's eyebrow twitches, 'really?'

Shrug. "Worth a try." Saunter to the lift, press the call button.

Penthouse door clicks.

Lift doors slide open.

Step in, press the button for the third floor.

Lift doors slide closed.

Fish your score from your jacket pocket, liberate the cash--

A business card flutters--

Snag it from the air with your thumb and the wallet.

-Logan, keep your head down. Some of those forces have a much less benign interest in you and your abilities than The Professor.-

"Yea, like every police force in the state." You crumple the card, not thinking about when or how Stabby got it in there, note the name on the ID, and drop the wallet on the floor.

Thanks for the tip, [Leung] Teng Willow.

Intruder arc: **Tip** | Intruder | **Sleepover**