The Quimby Hotel

━ 01: Running To Nowhere

Tipping back a glass bottle of cherry-lime soda at a booth on the darkened far side of the diner, Cairo Quimby was eavesdropping. This would have been a surprise to no one.

There wasn't anything else to do these days, on his time off from roaming the earth like a dandelion seed in the wind and collecting bounties. Listening, he'd long learned, was far superior to talking. One could talk for hours and hours and not say a thing, but listening always yielded beneficial results. He had heard many of the speaking-without-saying-anything-at-all sort, and was presently undecided on whether that or sickening silence was more insufferable.

Since the bird's departure from the nest, things had been fine. Five years and hundreds of bounties, hundreds of nights riding the train silently from city to city with the lights blurring past the windows, hundreds of near-deaths, hundreds of fights. There came a point when one became so ghostly he only could bear to live for the thrill of the chase, for the feeling of a motorcycle racing down the interstate and another wanted poster wadded up in his pocket—souvenirs. Some days, the thrill left him, and he was reduced to ashes, to nothing at all. Today was a day like that. No criminal to catch. No cash to collect. Only his empty soul and his thoughts, and the persistent muttering of the strangers across the diner.

"You know how it is," one of them was saying, his voice an unpleasant, growly rasp. "Breakin' the code left and right and usually they stay under the radar and no one stops 'em. But not this one. He's gotten the attention of the Court."

Cairo paid only idle attention to whatever they were droning on about, dipping his fries in generous helpings of ketchup. On days like this he could hardly muster the energy to eat at all, nevermind listen with a great deal of focus. The talking of the strangers was simply background noise to keep his mind at ease. He wondered where he would find himself tomorrow. He'd probably ride up to Seattle to find an easy picking of new jobs. It was getting exhausting doing cage fights to make up for the money he wasn't making, particularly because he wasn't any good at those. He usually wound up playing the loser.

"That Quimby fella's a goner," replied one of the others—there were three—and Cairo froze, a fry halfway to his mouth. His mind short-circuited briefly. Quimby? How many people around here were named Quimby? Had to be a coincidence, he thought—

"The man runs his hotel day and night, probably using unauthorized mag' for commercial purposes, flaunting it in the captain's face. I'm of a mind to snap 'im in half for the brazenness alone. Deserves to be hanged."

"But thems ain't the orders," the third stranger told the first harshly. "The orders is to get him to give it up. You'd be wise to remember your place, unless you wanna be the one in front of the Court."

Cairo's shaking fingers had clamped over his mouth, stifling his shallowed breathing. He could see it now, could see his parents at the desk of their hotel, smiling brightly at new customers. Nothing would have changed. But he'd changed, and so there was no coming back.

Except.

Except these men, In-Between enforcement officers by the sound of it, had something against his stepfather. He'd done something; broken the code. Whatever the hell that meant.

"What is it that he's keepin'?" asked the big, stupid one with the raspy voice. The one who'd corrected him shot him a glare.

"Not my place to tell. And whadda you care?"

"Just wantin' to know what we're after in the first place."

His companion licked his lips. "Two days ago," he began, after a beat of silence, "the captain sent in a spy. He reported back today a confirmation of the Unlawful in the building. It's protected within the place's walls, just like Cap' said. He can't touch it. We gotta coax it outta Quimby instead."