Conspiracy?

I never wanted to be here, to do this. I shut my eyes and look down, but I can still hear the cameras flash beyond the curtain. The Secretary's speaking to them now.

I sneak a peek, the exit is just that way, I could run. I could be free in a matter of seconds, maybe a minute. I could be down the street eating a warm slice at Tony's.

I clench my fists, but then where would the rest of New York, maybe even the rest of the world, be?

I came here for a reason, a good reason, I remind myself. I fiddle with the edges of my newly pressed shirt, I've never had a pressed shirt before. But the Secretary's people didn't want me to be presented as I normally am, covered in a thin layer of grim, my clothes in tatters. It's been a long time since my mother died, even longer since my dirtbag of a father left us. It's not easy, but I scrape by. I suppose that's why he didn't notice me, whoever he was.

I’d been sleeping, but the light sleep of a street kid, always having one eye open. Never safe, never still.

He didn't see me, I must have just blended in with the city grime. I know its cliché, but I was in an alley full of dumpsters.

Another man's fear broke through my light sleep.

"Get away from me," a small man stumbled into my view, he was crawling backwards as if just being tossed out the door and onto his ass. He had a cut along his forehead, and his hands were those made from years of hard labor. "I promise, I won't do it again," he was begging. I stilled, afraid the slightest movement could draw the attention of whatever had the stranger so scared.

"You promise?" The second man’s voice was smooth as glass, with a hint of poison. His words seemed to coil in the alley as an almost tangible essence of deceit and lies. As if nothing he said could be taken at face value. The sharp click of his walking stick meeting the street rang like a high pitch crystal bell.

"Yes, yes please!" The labored man begged. He had an arm wrapped around his torso, and I wondered if he had something broken inside, like a rib or worse. His eyes were wild with fear, and started searching his surroundings. He found me and his eyes nearly bugged out of his head. "Please, please help me!" he screamed at me.

I was frozen in place, fear gluing the bottoms of my feet to the ground. My entire body curled and hidden in the darkness and grime of the trash.

"No one is going to help you," the Smooth Man spoke. The words again, so slippery, near impossible to even catch. He spoke them, and then they were gone with just the feeling left behind, the feeling of being far, far beneath this man. As if I and the labored man were merely insects, and he a god.

He spoke again, a single word this time, so slippery I barely caught it. "MistDie."

The labored man didn't say anything, didn't move, didn't even breathe. He was there, trembling terrified, and then as if a cartoon bomb went off from inside his body, he squirted into a thousand drops of blood and flesh, muscle and bone, caking the entire alley, including me, in a fine mist of human.

Except of course for the Smooth Man, he didn't have a speck of red on him anywhere. "I told you not to cross me," he said matter-of-factly to the dead man, before turning and walking away.

The sound of the Smooth Man shutting the door behind him made me switch from freeze to flee in an instant. Covered in dead-man mist, I ran like a bat out of hell. I didn't look up till I was under the Brooklyn Bridge, washing my hands of blood in the filthy water.

What the hell had I just seen? It was crazy. I was crazy. But I’d seen it, I knew what I’d seen.

I went back a day later, only to discover an immaculate alley. No blood, no misty version of the dead man. No evidence what so ever. None.

Except my drenched clothes. Evidence. I had evidence that this had happened, that what I’d seen, it was real. What other explanation was there?

There had to be a way to get this tested, to prove that I wasn’t insane.

I felt the blood hitting me again, the memory razor-sharp in my mind. Maybe I shouldn't dig into it? Maybe that man, that Smooth Man whoever he was, maybe he'd kill me too.

I thought about it for days. Wandering through my normal haunts. Flip-flopping every few hours between ideas of what to do about it. It would certainly be easier to be quiet. To not say anything or dig any deeper. Be grateful I was alive and run.

But the fear in the man's eyes, the one who’d died. Did his family even know he was dead? Had he even had a family?

I clenched my fist, someone had to know him, everyone deserved to be known, to be seen for who they are. This man was no different, and the Smooth Man killed him. He should be held accountable, and the dead man should be mourned by his loved ones. It was as simple as that. Justice must be done.

I was just a street urchin, sure. But over the years I'd found people sympathetic. Some nurses in over flowing hospitals who actually gave a damn; Jane was one of them. When I showed up at the hospital she works at that same day, she took my shirt, listened to my story, and took me at my word.

She had the shirt analyzed by a lab tech friend and found the identity of the dead man a week later. His wife had reported him missing not long after what I’d witnessed. I knew someone would notice, would miss him.

"There've been rumors," Jane said as we sat on a bench badly needing repair. "Everything you just said, a man with hypnotic words and then poof," she mimed the sound as she said it, "no more."

"Why hasn't anyone stopped him? Why isn't this in the news?"

She looked over her shoulder for a second, I didn't know people actually did that. If we were being watched, which we probably were, looking over your shoulder wasn’t going to clue you into that fact. Still, Jane was kind, so I waited for her to believe she was safe before continuing her story. "Magic," she whispered low. "No one wants to hear about magic."

"But it's real," I pushed back.

She shook her head. "Doesn't matter. No one who has proof like you do—" she gestured to the bag where my bloody shirt was, "—is willing to speak up."

"What if I do?" I reply, shakily. "What if I speak up?"

She whistled and leaned back, "Well then, you're going to need some help."

Later that day, Jane called a contact of hers, who knew someone else, who knew someone who was running for public office, who knew a campaign manager, who told the Secretary and now I'm here; about to go in front of the press, dressed up like a little doll to tell the world that magic exists. I wonder what mom would think if she could see this now?

"Hello."

And just like that my body freezes as the cool voice of the Smooth Man wafts through my senses. I'm alone, I don't remember being alone back here. I thought there were technicians and other people walking around, then again, I was so lost in my head I didn't notice… The noises of the press seem to dim as he speaks.

"You sure have been making a lot of noise, Mouse."

"My name's Miles."

"Oh," he says completely unperturbed by the correction. Maybe giving my name wasn't the smartest of moves, then again, if he's here he probably already knows it.

"What do you want?" I ask, the stupid in me apparently not willing to just shut the hell up and pray to whatever god there might be to help me get through this alive.

"That's not really the question, is it?"

"I'm not a big fan of riddles."

He laughs, and that same sense of powerlessness comes over me. To him, I really am just an insect, a mouse.

He looks at me with a still amused expression. "The question is—" he goes on not addressing why he thought me so funny, "—what do you want?"

"I don't want to die." The answer came out faster than I could think.

"Yes, most people don't," he agrees.

"Going to kill me?" I ask, trying to just jump to it.

He sighs, "I'm not actually a fan of killing, Mouse."

I grit my teeth, but don't say anything about his stupid nickname for me.

"How about instead, we make a deal?"

"What kind of deal?" instantly wary of this turn of events. Why would he offer a deal if he could just kill me here and now?

"You don't say anything more about what you saw, and I'll let you live."

I don't say anything for a minute. The flash of cameras continue behind me and the Secretary's voice revving up to introduce me, the person who saw magic.

Obviously, not everyone in the audience thinks I'm telling the truth, but the fact that the Smooth Man is threatening my life, he believes enough would. Enough to what? Be a nuisance or maybe enough to make real change?

The Smooth Man looks to be in no hurry, even twirling his walking stick and sitting down in a chair that I swear wasn't there before. After another minute though, he speaks "Well?" asking for my answer.

"Why?"

"Why what?" Again with that amused twinge.

"Why are you even giving me a choice? You didn't give Harold one." The guy he killed in the alley.

"You think I didn't? You think you know everything after one encounter?"

"I think you killed him."

"Well yes, I did that," he admits with no guilt or attempt at denial. "But I gave him the same choice too, he just wasn't very smart about it. Cleaning up messes are never very fun for me, but—" he sighs as if this is all janitorial talk, "—it must be done."

I look to my side and the Secretary is waving me forward. Options click through my head like a set of gears, trying to find my best one. "Fine," I say to the Smooth Man, "I won't say anything."

"You understand if you break that promise, I'll kill you."

"Just like the man in the alley?"

He nods in confirmation.

I nod in return. "Deal."

I walk out shakily, the mantra 'don't be stupid' going through my head, but I have to. The Smooth Man keeps trying to clean up his 'mess' one by one, people need to know there is magic, they need to be able to at least try to protect themselves.

I get to the podium. I can feel the eyes of the world on me, but what stings more is the eyes of the Smooth Man from just off stage.

"Good evening, everyone." I know I won't have long. I wonder what it feels like to be burst into a million pieces. But it will certainly prove my point, even if I don't want to, not like this. Tears build in my eyes, I'm coming mom.

"Magic is real!" I scream into the microphone as fast as I can.

The last thing I hear is a disappointed sigh, a pop, and then nothing.