.2 Suddenly, she knew there was a man in the room. She didnâ€™t move a muscle to suggest that she knew he was there, but one of her hands crept towards her pillow. Underneath her pillow was a gun, loaded with two bullets. She could only afford two bullets with the price of the gun. It had come from the black market, of course. She was only fifteen years old, not old enough to buy a gun from an â€˜officialâ€™ store, and she didnâ€™t want people to know that she had a gun. She didnâ€™t know why, but she knew it was important. Just like she knew she had to have a gun. Just like she knew she had to run away from the orphanage she went to, and come to this hotel, in this city. Just like she knew the people in her dream.
.3 The gun had been bought for fifteen minutes, and the two bullets for another ten. That had been all he had. A gun and two bullets, which would have to be enough. Her father, before he had been taken off to the military prison on Mars had taught her enough about shooting, that she wouldnâ€™t waste a bullet by missing her target. She could kill two men before they got her. Two would have to be enough. Where she knew that she would be killing men, she couldnâ€™t say.
.4 Her hand found the gun, found the trigger. She stretched, then suddenly sat up and pointed the gun straight at the man. He was sitting in front of the window, a black silhouette against the artificial sun streaming in. The fact that he was dressed completely in black added to the effect. Seeing the gun in her hands, the man grinned, perfectly white teeth in a perfect smile. She felt the gun being yanked from her hand, as if a man ten times stronger than her were pulling it. She knew better than to try to fight, her father had told her never to fight against telepathic powers. A man had murdered his best friend like that in the third year of the Great War. She relaxed her hand, and the gun flew to the hands of the man sitting by the window. The bullet cartridge opened, and the two bullets went into his hand, which he clenched for a moment, then opened it and the two bullets dropped to the floor. They looked almost as if he had taken two bullet-shaped pieces of gray play-dough and squeezed them for a moment.
.5 Now she was scared. She didnâ€™t know who this man was, or what he wanted from her, but she knew he was powerful. Very powerful. He spoke. â€œMel, I know this is strange for you, this city, your dream, and even me. Strange and silhouettefrightening. But I am not as strange as you would think. Think back to the stories your grandmother told you, and you will remember me.â€