“She’s not leaving; she’s just sitting there like she owns the country.”
“Technically, she does. Dammit, I’m going to have to fight her.”
“I thought you wanted her gone?”
“Of course I do, she’s evil. But smart enough to know it’s over, I thought”
“What will you do?”
“Walk right up to her and start some shit”
“But–the guards?”
“Definitely *are* smart enough to know which way the wind is blowing. Give me the White Handbag and a small pistol. Is my dress straight”
“Yes, but she’s bulletproof and here. Uh, reverse order.”
“The pistol’s not for her”
I only made it two steps before it happened. The crowd in the hall stood up and *left*. They didn’t file out the back, they just moved forward in a solid wave, pushing chairs aside, driving guards and the Prime Minister before them, busting open the fire doors. DNA analysis and nanoscale serial number comparison of soul chip fragments proved that the stain in the courtyard had been The Presence.
Someone claiming to have led the charge—there was no charge, no leader, just an implacable human landslide of justice—is running for The Job now. Maybe they’ll be good at it. If not, I still have the handbag.