Sometimes she dreams of the moon [open]

47 blinked themselves awake. They woke up flat on their back in the middle of a road. They hadn’t quite gathered that yet, still puzzled with their sudden awakening. They weren’t even sure they went to bed last night. In fact, if they recalled correctly, they were in the preparing for a demonstration. A public execution ridding the world of another useless lesser demon by the name of “Cordova”. (Leonids weren’t as powerful as they looked, once you knew what to do.) They hadn’t remember that they were actually in the middle of its performance, but they remembered that much. 47 was still quite concussed. Their sight was still very blurry, beyond that of simply waking up with dry eyes and poor vision.

They flicked the lenses on the eyeholes of their mask open. They reached into each hole and rubbed the sleep out of their eyes. Only slightly better. So they were one degree away from the usually poor quality of their vision. They pushed themselves off the asphalt, which wasn’t blisteringly cold or iced over surprisingly, but still sat there in mild confusion. They was in the city, obviously, but it wasn’t freezing. They didn’t catch sight of any trams either. Very peculiar, since they were certain they were suppose to still be in Torted. This didn’t look like Torted simply because there were no tramcars running the streets. Furthermore, there wasn’t nearly enough decay to be Torted. In fact, there was no decay in sight. The buildings, the roads, the sidewalks-- everything was pristine. Of course, they know you couldn’t rely on the administration to do anything to actually maintain the city. No, they were all useless.

Just then, a blaring noise came zooming their way. It looked like a compact trolley car, but it didn’t screech like one. Instead it honked like an obnoxious bird. Before it could even stop, 47 rolled out the way and onto the sidewalk. As they watched the vehicle drive off, they realized what it was. It was a car. They seen plenty of automobiles before, they just never seen a functioning one actually moving, though they had been to car shows before on missions. Only incredibly rich aristocrats could afford to have one fixed up and legally drive one anywhere, and none of them lived in Torted (which was ironically dubbed ‘Motor City’ some thousand something odd years ago).

Clearly, they weren’t in Torted anymore. Now they were questioning where they were and how they got there.

“DTRA47, once upon a time… DTRA47, once upon a time…” they said, hoping VOX would transmit them. No response. They repeated themselves, this time pressing down on the PTT button.

As they walked down the street, they continued trying to contact their comrades via ham radio, just in case, but all they got was nothing. Not even static. It was completely dead. They must have busted it somehow. They were certain they checked it this morning. That’s what they always did! Something must have happened between then and now, but they didn’t know what. Whatever it was, it nullified their radio, even if it looked perfectly fine. They amplified the volume, adjusted with the VFO knob, tinkered with the tone, toyed with the reflector, cycled through the channels, did the everything to the everything. If they didn’t take cover in an alley, they would have looked like a madman, though they probably looked even crazier in an alley if anyone saw them.

Or maybe the battery needs recharging. If that was the case, then they must have been out for a quite while, and they weren‘t sure how it even lost charge in the first place-- it automatically powers off when not in use (maybe the VOX was picking up on the sound of these cars; damn noisy). Now they felt kind of stupid for laughing at the suggestion they wire solar panels in their mask (admittedly, it was a pretty silly idea).

Aw well, it wasn’t that important at the moment. What was more important was that they got the move on and figured out where they were and how they even got there. They suspected they might have been intercepted, but if that was the case they’d probably be dead. They weren’t sure. They continued to ponder this thought as they reentered public view on the sidewalk, watching the cars drive by. There were so many! It was baffling! Cars of all sorts, like at the show, though many of them they didn’t recognize at all. They remembered a few things from that mission when they had to impersonate a car enthusiastic, but most of the knowledge disappeared after the mission. They could recognize one as a Ford Mustang Shelby GT 500. They remembered it because they thought it was ‘pretty’ and remembered how fast those cars were purportedly. Their best friends would have loved it too. Some they didn’t know the name of, but still recalled seeing them. Then there were completely unknown vehicles to them. Like the one that looked like a tall women in a cloak walking down the street. All the other cars were beeping at it. Very odd indeed.

Then it dawned on them that it was a car that looked like a tall woman in a cloak but it really was a tall woman in a cloak. They felt downright stupid then. She must have felt stupider though. After all, she was walking down the middle of a street with traffic swerving and honking all around her.

“You might want to move, Miss!” 47 called out brightly (though somewhat muffled by the mask), gesturing her to come their way if she could hear them. She might have been stupid, but that was no reason for her to die, especially at the hands of a disgusting, indulgent blue-blood.