Vincent could not believe that he was being followed.

The thick, mood drowning rain chilled his body and soaked his skin. He shivered once, almost convulsively, and kept walking.

Vincent had left Zopie’s with none too level a head and even less awareness of his surroundings. He knew that these things happened, everyday so they say, but when you are talking about "things" and "theys" you are not expecting to be involved. But even plagiarism and petty theft were pushed aside as the thought of the dark man behind him came again.

The thing that he liked the most about these streets in the rain was how every pothole became a tide pool for the worst kind of shit. How street lights reflected off every wet surface, giving it all brilliant sheen, and you can’t tell a pothole from the curb.

Vincent put an arm to the side of a soft red stone building and braced himself against it. Shaking his head he sprayed droplets of water in all directions. He caught a glimpse of the same man in a dark trench coat behind and below him. Light from above ineffectually illuminated his wiry dark hair and obscured his face with deep shadows.

Zopie’s had been crowded that night as it always was when it rained. It sent all sorts scurrying down it’s rubber covered steps into the basement dwelling coffee house. Vincent was one of them, too. Gripping the yellow metal railing and trying not slip on the wet steps, he passed the dizzying murals on the walls. He leaned against the door and then pulled it open to the smell of wet clothes and caffeinated drinks.

The couches and chairs were full of disdainful little pricks who had come down not because of the rain, but because they planned to. A funny thing to see each one turn or look up from their drinks to assess each new entrant. As Vincent entered they smirked because they knew he had pushed instead of pulled.

Pricks. He wanted coffee. No. He wanted Chai Tea. Chai Tea, an empty table, and any grubby fanzine he could get his hand on. His grubby hand, he reminded himself.

He grabbed his tea and snatched a discarded, stapled bunch of papers and headed to the back of the incendiary wing. The smoke was thick and he managed to grab a table just as it was vacated by two genderless people in leather jackets.

The table was cluttered with two hours worth of espresso cups and a nearly overflowing ashtray. Vincent nearly shouted at the fleeing former occupants to bus their own shit, but did not. He didn’t care as long as he could find a corner of the table to claim for his tea.

He sipped and read, trying to make out the words from the wet and crinkled clump of papers called "De Vine". Part gossip, part theology, part artsy poems and stuff, the ‘zine was still uncluttered by the normal trimmings of most hand done productions. No tear lines on sheets, no obviously shrunken photocopies, just neat, printed text. The only thing there other than text were some conservatively drawn vines, a halo around the "V" in the title, and a small drawing of a hand on the back page. It seemed out of place there, poised in the middle of some gesture.

There was nothing explaining the drawing or its significance, just a story or article in small print near it. Vincent commenced to reading. He made it only four words into the third sentence before the ‘zine slipped from his slackened fingers and dropped lazily to the floor.

From behind him Vincent sensed motion. Someone crouching to retrieve the papers. Vincent half turned in his seat and came face to face with another wet figure. His knees were spread wide and he balanced easily on the balls of his feet. He met Vincent’s eyes with a calm that angered him.

"I wasn’t done with that."

"Neither was I."

The figure stood up gracefully; shooting up, it seemed, in a straight line from his ankles to his shoulders with his head rising after the rest of him had come to rest.

Vincent slapped his hand down on the man’s wrist that was not holding the ‘zine and pulled. The man turned on his own and paused, awaiting something from Vincent.

But Vincent could only stutter out a short stream of protests. The man’s eyes drew all of his thoughts out of him and left him dumbfounded. It was hard to tell their color, they just seemed so glassy, but they were so horribly alert. The noise of the room flooded into them, disappearing, and the smoke seemed to thin or ring around him.

"It’s not for you."

The man turned and walked away, stepping out the back exit without touching anyone. They seemed to make way for him or were kept at a distance.

Vincent had picked up his tea and placed it, still full, in the bus tray and walked out.

He was walking past vast cement parking garages when he first glanced behind him. Slipping from pool to pool of light, was a drenched form walking in his direction. The sheen of the streetlights glared off his shoulders and his black hair.

Vincent wrapped one fold of his own trench coat over the other and pulled the draw string taught with a simple knot. He plodded on, landing one foot after the other in deep, chilling puddles of water. Without stopping he crossed the street and headed up the hill towards the looming fortress of a building at the top.

So he rested finally against the building awaiting the wet, shinning trench coat approaching.

He saw him on the hill, still taking smooth, light steps on slick grass. He passed underneath deep shadows of trees, disappearing in the darkness, and then emerging on the other side. Stepping into oblivion and then stepping out like it was a habit.

Fading out of existence, the gaunt man vanished again.

Then there was a bright flash of lightning that for an instant filled all the gaps on the side of the hill. The trees were separated from their shadows and the grass that had been enshrouded before revealed no one.

A hand dropped onto Vincent’s shoulder and spun him smoothly around.

His shoulder was caught in a irresistible grip. It was not painful, just uncontestable. He looked to the man’s eyes but could not find them in the deep shadows that filled his sockets.

"Nice trench coat," Vincent said, trying to smile wryly in the process.

Vincent thought he saw a faint smile flit across the sculpted face. His jaw reminded him of paintings he’d seen in history books. Smooth and preternaturally angular at the same time. For a second Vincent wondered if his assumption that this person in front of him was a man might be wrong. But his immobilized body pushed that thought away.

Another flash like a busload of Hollywood photographers at a gala opening went off. Vincent sucked in air swiftly in the moment after the flash not sure that the eyes he saw now were the same eyes he saw before. Or if they were eyes at all.

"Hello. The name’s…"

"Vincent Glass."

He stared dully at the lips that uttered the words he just heard doubting that the thin traces he saw could have made the sound he heard. Like a chorus of people speaking the same line in perfect unison, but in dissonant harmony.

"That’s funny… my name’s Vincent Glass, too. What a coincidence. I’m afraid I must be going along now…"

Vincent didn’t move, couldn’t move. Neither did the figure opposite him.

"Is this about that stupid ‘zine? Look I’m sorry I took it, but it was just sitting there on the table… I didn’t know it belonged to anyone."

The rain’s falling intensified, spattering against the two in walls and sheets of cascading water.

"Damn it… say something. What did I do? What do you want from me?" he cried, his voice becoming shrill. He did not recognize it as it’s own. He did not feel himself shape the words as he spoke.

One drop came falling, landing on his eye and rolling out and down, tracing a winding path along his face. Tears began to follow it.

"What?! What?!!"

Vincent felt two fingers being softly pressed to his own lips, silencing them.

His terror and entombed rage fled his body in tangible wave and Vincent relaxed against the hand on his shoulder.

The figure lifted its fingers from his lips and placed its fingers on his forehead. Middle and ring finger together, the others spread, he slowly lowered them palm in over Vincent’s face. As they passed his eyes they closed and as they passed his mouth it slackened completely. As it finally left his face altogether, his entire body went limp, suspended by one shoulder.

The figure paused then lowered him back on to the pavement gazing down. Crouching swiftly it pressed two fingers to its lips then turned them out and placed them on Vincent's forehead. It stood and turned, walking swiftly away.

Another flash of lightning came followed on its heels by a crash of thunder. The instant lasted longer than it should have, filling the darkness that followed the flash with a ghostly image of the restful face of Vincent and the departing figure casting its shadow over the scene. It’s lengthened shadow of a billowing trenchcoat multiplied as if by independent flashes of light. Four bodies extending from a single point on the ground, bent over the broken concrete and steeply climbing walls and six arms stretching out to grasp the rain.