Unseen

         “What's your story then love?”
         At first she didn't respond, he wasn't talking to her, not this skinny, weird looking, redhead with freckles that looked like a skin disease. His Irish accent was light, playful. He had sat down right beside her, but he wasn't looking at her, which was to be expected. He cupped a cigarette in his hands, lighting it against the wind. If she'd been paying more attention, she would have seen that he wasn't holding a lighter or matches, just the cigarette. She wasn't looking at this strange thin man. He was all wiry muscle, plague/skin and huge green eyes, visible even in the periphery of her vision.
         “So, ya don't talk much do ya. Tha's fine by me sister. I like quiet women, long as they're loud where they need to be," the remark was seemingly random, addressed to no one, but it was rude and personal in nature. In her experience with the "crazy" people she'd seen, they sensed her at times, but no matter how often she hoped for it, they didn't quite see her. When they talked to the air it sounded ridiculous, angry or sad, or something else, it wasn't usually complimentary or bawdy.
         The park was mostly empty. It reminded her of Ranier park in Seattle, but without the unpleasant memories. She reached up to touch the scar, her only scar where it ran from armpit to pelvic bone. The sword had sheared off all of her ribs. She'd nearly died, would have died but for the medical staff being so overworked they hardly saw anyone as an individual anymore. They'd worked right past her, done their jobs without thinking. Normally that would be bad, but it had saved her life, and kept her out of jail. Not that jails would hold her very long, not that they could given who and what she was. She was too important to be left to moulder in a basement cell.
         This park was pretty, green and verdant. The rock was big enough to hold the two of them without touching, and there weren't any benches. It was a beautiful day, the sort of day that anyone would appreciate, blue sky with fluffy white clouds, springtime. The season of joy and life. It wasn't her time of year. All the voluble joy and exuberance just made her feel weary, run down and out of touch. The man, the Irishman, was still talking to himself, though she'd tuned him out mostly. Then he said something that brought her mind snapping back so suddenly it was like mental whiplash.
         “We've been looking for you for a while Malkia. You're a hard woman to find, but I've got you in my sights now,” he breathed in deeply, through his nose, and turned to orient on her. He looked right at her, cigarette drooping between his lips, a grin, almost Cheshire in nature with perfect white teeth, all of them just a touch more pointed and sharp than was right.
         It was stunning, impossible. No one ever saw her. They couldn't, it was against every kind of sense. It took her a second to realize that he wasn't quite looking at her. He was actually looking through her, but right through her. He couldn't see her after all, but he knew right where she was. He could sense her.
         “You may as well speak duckie, you can run, but I'll find you. You may not be seen, but you can be smelled. And you smell good...”
         The grin was decidedly wolfish, unfriendly teeth baring behavior. Mali didn't know what to do with herself. Was he right? Could he smell her? He definitely knew that someone was there, and what frightened her most was that he knew who she was. It had been years since anyone had used her name, or needed to. She wanted to ask questions, she had a million of them all racing in frantic crocus style, getting nowhere. Malika was out of the habit of human speech though. She never really spoke to anyone anymore, except by e-mail, and then only rarely.
         “W... wh- who, what, how,” she managed at last.
         His eyes narrowed, head tilted just a touch to hear. Then very suddenly his eyes focused, he looked at her, actually looked at her. It was the first time that had happened in years, and she found it wasn't necessarily pleasant to be noticed. He was leering at her, undressing her with his eyes and smiling, like he knew something about her fit body that she didn't yet know herself.
         “Ewww,” she managed, this time her control over the disused vocal chords was stronger. He wasn't unattractive, but he wasn't her type either, too thin, too carrot topped, too plaguey or rorschachy the smooth crème and chocolate splotched skin, too green and distracting the eyes. Too sure of himself, not cocky, really sure of himself. He was far too comfortable with things, like a lord or king with great self esteem and faith in his divine mandate. Mali, when such things had been possible, had dated only jocks, muscled, compliant, stupid creatures, pretty but basically useless. It was what everyone expected her to do, she was pretty, or she had been once though now it hardly mattered.
         “Say what you like girl, but you'll find you like me more and more,” he said without malice, the self assurance in his tone and even gaze was unsettling to say the least.
         “Who are you,”  she asked the question like she wasn't sure she could find the words to ask.  She was on shaky ground here, unfamiliar terratory. Mali had always been one of two things to other people, when she was young she'd been a beauty, talented, beloved, envied, desired, after the accident she was intriguing and useful, or she was nothing at all, a wind who blew through town after town, barely stirring up dust and leaving almost no noticeable footprint anywhere. Of course she'd had to learn to cover her tracks and work strange spy gadgets. That part had been fun for a short while, the rest had been easy. Mind numbingly simple... like sneaking around when you are beyond invisible.
         Until the accident happened everything had been easy. Life was easy. She went to school and got good grades, went out for sports and was always the fastest or strongest, the most accurate with the best stamina. She wasn't rich or poor, her parents were loving, doting, but mostly absent with work. She played instruments, danced, sang, was on the debate team, the math club, all of it came as easily as yawning. She collected hobbies, but she wasn't condescending about her achievements and encouraged others to strive for excellence without pushing them unduly to try. She didn't have to try, some people are just lucky.
         “My mother called me Shamus, but my employers call me Mez. You,” and he looked her up and down from the tips of her toes, just visible (to the two of them anyway) in a pair of black peep-toe pumps, to the top of her head with it's rich, silky waves of auburn, “Can call me whenever you like.”
         He flashed teeth at her again, this time more tooth, but less malice. He liked what he saw, now that he could see it, see her. Mali wished she'd chosen something else to wear that day, but she was out of the habit of being seen. It was like a curse. Even a man who saw her across the room or street, one who followed her, and many had tried, would find that as he got closer to her, she was harder to find. It was easier to get what she needed online, order everything from food to clothing online. They delivered to a PO box, and no one seemed to notice when she came and went to open it. She'd never been followed before, and due to her complete anonymity she dressed only to amuse herself.
         Over the years, being unseen had made her eccentric. Sometimes she wore a trench coat and boots and nothing else like a flasher, or a ball gown, or a bikini in summer. Her wardrobe was extensive and filled with outlandish costumes, brightly colored jeweled fabrics and all manner of clothes that most people only wore once in a while, to expensive halloween parties or gala events. She wasn't wearing anything like that today... today she'd pulled out her spy-girl costume. A fitted, supple leather catsuit that zipped in two pieces from the back of her neck to just below her clavicles in front, and of course she'd worn the six inch stilletto heels she'd bought with it. It was stunning. She could have, in another life where she'd never had the accident, been a famous actress, a broadway star, one of the many glitterati in a place like Hollywood. She was dressed for it, but it was so shockingly comfortable to wear, it was almost hard not to. The suit had cargo pockets on sleeves and legs for easy carrying of just about anything smaller than a two liter bottle of soda.
         She had never expected or even dared to dream that someone might see her... up close and personal like this. She wished she'd worn the trench coat instead. For the first time in so long she could hardly remember it, she was aware of herself, how she looked... to someone else. It was flattering and unsettling to note the way he admired the tone of her tanned muscles beneath the thin layer of extra skin that was her clothing.
        She was absurdly glad that he'd not turned up on a day when she was wearing a Cinderella dress, or a harlequin suit, or something worse. With no one to notice but yourself, one can get a little silly in their fashion choices. In a way, she felt like a ghost, or the last person alive in the world. The worst cold shoulder of all time. She had been a narcissist once, albeit a quiet one, but that had been long ago.
        Now the exercise and sunlight was more of a time killer than anything else. She tried to stick to a routine, running, but never in the streets since no one would see her crossing, always at a park, or somewhere nearby, a wash would do if there was nothing else to run in that was safe, and going to the gym was only a matter of finding one that was open but not very busy. She kept active between jobs, and worked as much as she could. It kept her sane, that and the funny clothing.
         “You're a quiet thing, but very pretty. I think we could get along,” he assured her with a jaunty air, “Girl like you, a man needn't worry much about other men looking, that's f'sure. So tell me your story, or we can get right down to business.”
         Now she was frightened. She wasn't a superhero, just a fairly talented and capable spy with an unusual and profitable condition. She relied on her un-visibility to escape, and heels weren't made for chases. She had only been out for a walk, if she'd been on exercising things would be different, but that was probably why he'd chosen now to accost her. He could see her... the implications were mind boggling. He could... smell her too? She wasn't sure, but it seemed to be the case. This was bad. Buy time, use your skills, it's like riding a bike. Years of theater and improv were stored in the back of her mind.
         “What do you want to know,” she said and then, she remembered to smile. Smile #34, sexy and curious, she had catalogued the particulars of her expressions, schooled them well. It was the wrong choice though, and her lack of practice made her slow, hesitant and obvious. Shamus looked alert, wary of the sudden change. He was good, not that he needed to be to catch her unawares.
         No, he was a spy. Worse, he was a better spy than she was, she knew it. She'd never known a better spy than she was, it was like everything else she'd done in life, easy. Spying was cake for her. But for him, she suspected, it was like air, easy as breath. He was so smooth, so natural, it was appealing, intriguing and dangerous. He was uncanny and the longer she sat and looked into his eyes, the more she wanted to like him. She wanted to just sit and listen to him, to everything he might suggest.
         “What does Mez mean,” she tried again.
         “It's short for Mezmerize, a little joke if you will,” he inclined his head slightly, but didn't break eye contact, “I'm terribly sorry about all this miss, but I do have a job to do ya know.”
         “Sorry about what?”
         “Sorry about how tired you must be...”
         She yawned and stretched, the leather creaked pleasantly and the afternoon seemed suddenly to be thick like crème, warm and cloying, exhausting. Her limbs felt thick, her lungs sluggish and heavy.
         “Yes,” she agreed, only dimly aware of the little tiny voice that was screaming at her to get out of there. The voice was so far away... and she was so sleepy. Surely the stranger would lose interest, lose focus if she drifted off to sleep. He would leave if she ignored him and had a nap.
         “Very sleepy,” he murmured in deep rich tones created to lull. Malika yawned again and stood to stretch and find a place off the path to nap in a patch of sunlight.
         She didn't make it that far, instead slumping mid-stretch into the outstretched and waiting arms of the strange Irishman who could see her. He smiled down at her sleeping form, not a grin this time, but just a little rueful.
         “It's not your fault ya know,” he assured her seeping form, “No one can resist me. Bit of a curse really, but I s'spect you'd be knowin' all about that now, won't ya? It's too bad, you could have been great fun to hunt, but you got careless with the shoes. Always wear good shoes, you never know where they may have to take you."
      She didn't hear him, not even unconsciously. Her mind had wandered off to dream land without her knowledge or permission. Nothing but sleep, and dreamless gentile unconsciousness engulfed her like a soft blanket. The dangerous, uncatchable accident had fallen into his trap and arms as neatly and inevitably as a leaf falls from it's tree in Autumn. He regretted that it had been too easy, but he wasn't particularly surprised.