"One of the obligations of the writer is to say or sing all that he or she can, to deal with as much of the world as becomes possible to him or her in language."
-- Denise Levertov

The package arrived at my door the next day, a thick brown envelope neatly stamped. No return address. Hardly surprising, since as a villain Sibilant was wanted by nearly every type of law enforcement known to mankind.

The postman handed it to me with a frown. No doubt the man was worried that such a thick, boxy package could contain plastique. Mailbombs had become a danger in the Rogue Isles; several had died recently from explosions - most had been postmen. Mail-sent explosives were the preferred form of hit: the evidence was mostly erased by sheer damage, and you didn't have to be there to do it. Assassination is a big business, like I said, and every corporation's major goals are the elimination of risk - and getting their product to the masses.

When I opened it with the letter opener, I expected a deluge of paper. Not so - only a half dozen sheets, typed, slid out. The rest of the envelope was filled with a framed picture. I pulled it out, curious. The frame was new, cherrywood polished and framed in gold. The picture was not: half was awash in a dark red stain that was either wine or blood, a tear marred the middle figure, it curved under the glass frame -- like it had been wet and dried badly.

It was of Sibilant before her changes. It was also of her parents. The three stood in a line, her parents smiling, distant; Sibilant in the middle, unsmiling, fierce, exuding an illitimitible, boundless anger. It was that emotion that defined the picture: a chilling enmity that pounded at the fragile bars of self-control in its way.

I would be lying if I told you that a chill didn't go down my spine at that. In a way her story hadn't, this spoke to me: she had been broken. Not just her bones, though I wouldn't doubt that many of hers had experienced at least a little cracking, but down to her psyche, to who she was. I could only guess who had done so: who else could it be, to create that expression, so fiercely angry - and didn't I see a little ruined trust there? A little loneliness?

I found my cynicism shaken. Ever since she had appeared at my door, cloaked all in dark red, eyes hidden, hands folded, I had doubted her. It seemed so dramatic: a girl appears at a reporter's door with a horrible story; a villain seeks redemption, all that - was I living in a noir? I'd listened, sure, but I had held my tongue for fear of losing it, not with interest. Her tears hadn't changed that: she'd said herself that she was a master of persuasion. Mastery of mendacity would have to follow.

It wasn't that I had doubted the veracity of her facts - just the reality of her emotions.

Doubt became much, much harder to summon while I was looking into those frigid blue eyes.

I put the picture out of sight, if not out of mind; like it had the night before, her face followed me into my dreams. Shaken, I reached for the sheaf of paper that had fallen out of the envelope in a pile at my feet. The first page was short, one line. The rest were dense with directions leading to a tiny cafe in Cap Au Diable.

Don't feel sorry for me, it said, I don't deserve it. I kill.

The story and the picture, they seemed like perfect ways to create sympathy, understanding. I thought - well, I'd thought she wanted a friend. Reading the letter, it seemed I was dead wrong.

Maybe she's just denying it, I thought, she wouldn't be the first to turn away help. Definitely not the first villain. Either way...

I threw on my jacket, feeling like a detective in a 40s noir.

The cage was aromatic, rich with coffee beans, sugar, and cologne - instantly nostalgic and relaxing. A few college students sipped coffee drowsily, tapping away at laptops.

It's strangely peaceful here. This little shop doesn't feel like the Rogue Isles at all; the tension that pervades Cap Au Diable is gone. Sibilant must come here for that: a little calm, after the chaos of crime, would be euphoric.

"It is," she said from behind me. I turned, surprised, as she continued. "It feels even better with a cup of coffee and an iPod," she grinned, indicating the white headphone in her ear.

"I'm sure," I said, laughing. "That the only reason you called me here? To show it off?" She furrows her brow.

"You're not curious how I knew what you were thinking?"

I shrug. "Not really, no. You've got a lot of secrets, Sibil--"

"Don't call me that when I'm not in costume. My name," she said quietly, "is Cait. Cailtin Rowland."

A name makes her more human, I thought; I can see how she could be a normal person, too.

"You're paying for coffee, then."

"And go Dutch on the first date?" She laughed. Again, there was that strange spark of intimacy.

"So, Cait," I said, rolling the taste of her name around in my mouth, "what kind of coffee do you like?"