1:21 PM Couples Retreat

Anh | Sept 5 1998: 1321 ICT | V Plaza Parking Lot: Parking Lot(10.781520274304503, 106.70006447214493) |District 1

My eyes darted around the room, searching for something—anything—to help me.

I was in a kitchen. There had to be something! 

The man grabbed half the blade with his gloved hand, holding it like a spear.

I spotted a dish cart to my left and shoved it toward him. He pushed it aside effortlessly and swung the sword at me. I jumped back and screamed. He positioned himself with his back to the exit.

I was trapped between the counter and the stoves. The man in the pink puffy jacket walked slowly toward me, as if there were no rush to take down his prey. I grabbed a knife while still pointing the gun at him.

“Listen, I don’t want to hurt you.”
I tried my best to put on a brave face and keep the gun from shaking. 

The helmeted figure looked at the gun.

“You won’t.”

“What do you want, money? I can get you money.”

He was still coming closer.

“You think money will absolve you, phù thủy?”

"Why do you keep calling me a witch?" 

"You whore yourself to demons and cast spells, what else should I call you?"

"He's Vietnamese? I caught the accent in his English. I stepped toward the stove. There were three pots still boiling—no one had taken them off.

“Please. I’m not one of them. I’m from Saigon. I’ve been here my whole life. I grew up in District Four, my father worked the docks.”
I dropped the knife, as if that proved my point.

“Then you are a witch, a whore, and a traitor.”
He spoke without emotion and kept coming, sword low at his side.

I watched him close the distance—then stopped.

“Fine then.”

I grabbed one of the pots and hurled the boiling liquid at him. I screamed as the molten pan seared my hand. He recoiled, writhing as the scalding fluid soaked him. He stumbled back, his sleeve catching fire from the stove. He screamed as he beat at the flames.

I ran past the counter toward the swinging doors. I grabbed the dish cart again and shoved it at him. The helmeted man shifted his stance, preparing to charge.

“You’ll pay for that, Saito bitch!”
The metallic distortion in his voice cracked with rage.

I smashed the gun against the counter again.
"Work. Damn you." I smacked it again, like it personally offended me. 
Then I fired two shots. He ducked behind the counter.

Using what little strength I had left, I pushed the rattling cart forward. I winced as my burned hand stuck to the metal. With everything I had, I slammed it into him.

He staggered and failed to regain his balance. He toppled with a crash of metal and glass as beer mugs, silverware, and the table collapsed on top of him.

I didn’t wait to see if he stayed down. I turned toward the metal door at the back of the kitchen.

“Staff exit only.”

I bolted, shoving the door open with my body, hands locked around the gun. I heard him shouting curses behind me as I burst into the rain.

The exit led into an alley opening toward Le Duan Street. Shouting, sirens, and distant gunfire echoed across the district. The normally busy street was deserted. Across the road, cathedral grounds loomed behind thick trees.

My bike should be here. If it wasn’t, maybe I could hide in the trees until things calmed down.

The sky was black with clouds. Rain and fog choked visibility. The air smelled of water, filth, and smoke.

I slid the purse strap over my gun arm and fumbled through it with my free hand.

Hopefully my bike wasn’t jacked or destroyed. It should be in this alley. I was home free… well, I’d probably need money to bribe the guard.

I stopped.

A woman stood in the rain. Too tall to be Vietnamese, not tall enough to be Western. She wore a large backpack and antennae. Metallic goggles and armor glinted in the streetlights. Her face, hair and body blocked by a yellow raincoat and black facemask.

“Your gold and silver are corroded. Their corrosion will testify against you and eat your flesh like fire.”

Why did she speak through a vocoder? She sounded like Mitsuki Haiku.
Oh God. She was one of them.

I tried to run past her. She stopped me with a single movement. I stumbled, and she grabbed me by the neck, hauling me up effortlessly. I couldn’t breathe.

I looked down at her hands—cold as steel—crushing my throat. Her face was hidden behind mask and goggles. In their mirrored surface, I saw only myself, shaking.

I fired at the ground. Then I kicked both legs into her shoulders. She flung me aside. I slid and rolled across the wet pavement. My purse, gun, and ID badge scattered across the alley.

The back door burst open. The helmeted man emerged, sword raised. He turned toward me and advanced.

Bruised, soaked, and barely holding together, I rolled toward the gun and felt its warmth in my hands again.

As the biker closed in, I fired point-blank into his chest. He stumbled and collapsed. He tore open his jacket. In the light, I saw a metal icon of Our Lady of Perpetual Help, mud-like bullets lodged inside.

“Thank God you don’t use real bullets.”

“Peter, hurry. We need to go!”
The digitally masked voice called out. I heard the distinctive sound of a moped starting.

My moped.
She took my keys.

“You wanted her.”

“Forget her. We need to go.”

The woman pulled up beside Peter. I was still dazed. Almost automatically, I slid backward as Peter climbed on, and they sped off together.

I limped after them, firing until the gun refused to respond. As they vanished, I caught a faint glimmer of gold in the woman’s backpack.

This was all just a heist?

“This is Magistrate Police. Drop the weapon and put your hands up. I repeat, put your hands up or we will fire.”

Sirens wailed behind me. A megaphone crackled.

No. No no no no no.

The gun clattered from my hand. A sudden heat flared at my side as the weapon combusted.

I dropped to my knees, exhausted. In a puddle, I saw myself: makeup washed away, hair a mess, suit shredded, skin bruised and filthy.

Why? Why me?

The last hour crashed down on me. 

The fighting, tore through my body. 

The running. The running from what I did. The burn in my hand throbbed openly now, the rest of my injuries no longer muted by adrenaline. My mind was showing me everything I had put aside.

I heard police shouting as I stared down the empty street where the thieves disappeared with my scooter. 

"How did this happen?"

I broke down and cried.

“This was just a stupid lunch date.”

“Keep your hands up!”