My reputation must have proceeded me, for the guard snapped his gun up and fired the moment I stepped into the office.
At least, I assume that even a crime lord wouldn't have all his visitors shot on sight.
Though I suppose, maybe he just shoots people without an appointment.
I drop into slow time, the world dimming redly away into a great silence. I watch the bullet now drift slowly towards me, accurately aimed, I notice, at where my heart would be, if I were human.
I step aside, the air heavy and resistant like cold molasses.
I reach out and gave the bullet a push down towards the floor, the metal squishing unpleasantly against my fingers. It’s not that I'm unusually strong, but the speed at which I'm moving greatly multiplies the impact I have on ordinary matter.
I have to be careful, for I can easily do great damage.
I push my way through the heavy cold air, feeling it crack and splinter behind me in my wake. The guard’s gun squishes like jello as I gently pull it out of his hand, and then I return to normal time.
And wince, the world at its full brightness glaring at me, the sonic boom of my passage breaking the windows, the guard screaming in pain with his hand torn and bleeding, his finger broken that had been on the trigger. I feel his pain as if it were my own, for I am an empath.
Behind me the protesting secretary has begun to fling himself down to the floor, the door to the reception area still standing open to the busy street beyond.
I step past the guard, and the crime lord behind his desk is just now throwing up his arms in front of his face. But he recovers his composure quickly, and does not try to reach for a weapon.
“You will sell no more children into slavery,” I tell him.
He protests. “Ah, Cat Dancer, look, every one of those children were sold by their parents too poor to take care of them. They're... they're fed now! Taken care of. Not starving, as they would be!
“Look, I'll cut you half the proceeds, just think how much good you could do with that money, and together we could ensure that the children only go to good buyers!”
I shake my head, and begin my dance.
I am shamed to be dancing this dance with such a man. It is the dance of our people that we dance with our most loved ones, a dance of mating, a dance that throws open our minds and directly communicates our deepest feelings of love and joy. It is unavoidably sensual, and to dance it here in such a place is a desecration.
But it is the dance I know, and now the crime lord is feeling the feelings of every little boy he has ripped away from his family, the terror of every little girl sold off, the anguish of every mother who lost her children, the fear and unutterable humiliation of every father he entrapped by pushing drugs, then hustled with loans to pay for the drugs at incredible interest rates, and finally threats and intimidation when the families couldn't repay the loans.
It was hundreds of memories, and I leave the crime lord huddled in the corner, his face in his hands. I do not except him to get up again. The guard is sobbing heavily now. I wonder if maybe he looked in towards the end of the dance; if so, he'll have bad nightmares for weeks. Or perhaps it is just his hand.
I walk out into the street. An alarm is ringing, a crowd has gathered looking at the blown out windows, sirens are coming closer.
You might think that with my unusual appearance someone would notice me, cry out, point, direct the authorities to pursue me. Yet I find that simply by being present in the moment, part of the flow, people may see me but do not notice.
I walk away.
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