False signals

It was a young man in his twenties who took the breakfast order to room 74. This was his first job, and he was just beginning to see a pattern correlating people's age, and how they liked to begin the day. By his reckoning, room 74 would be a rather mature specimen. They had called around 6 am, the first guest of the morning, and the earliest he had seen so far. They wanted a boiled egg, with half a grapefruit, a pile of biscuits, and some genuine hot chocolate. They were someone, he thought, who no longer let the changing seasons colour their habits, always eager to live a new day and start off with a small treat.

The tenant had been staring at where his head would be before he even gripped the door handle. He met her gaze on the first step inside; his leading foot jerked ever so slightly, and the shock wave upon hitting the floor caused a single drop of chocolate to splash out of the cup and slide down the edge, ruining the otherwise utterly immaculate tray he had prepared.

She lay on the bed, propped up against her pillow. The blanket was pulled up to just short of her shoulders and tucked under each arm. Above was a great unruly mass of jet black curls, framing a face full of sharp cutting edges, chin jutting forwards like a spike. The eyes were also utterly black, and managed to stand out in spite of the surrounding skin itself being a dark shade of purple. Room 74 was home to a witch.

Extra carefully, he approached and leaned over to set down the tray on the bedside table. He asked "Will that be all?" before rising from that posture. On the way up he saw her eyes snap back to him, but not from low enough to have been looking at the table. A shiver ran up his spine when he understood, and his cock twitched to life. For a split second he wondered why it should affect him so. Lots of women saw his cock all the time. But the answer to his question came and shattered his thoughts.

"Yes. Get out."

Charlotte tried very hard to just enjoy what was brought her. The chocolate was like a luscious soup, and was lovely as a coating over the biscuits. The grapefruit tasted like real grapefruit. And the egg was perfect, hot all the way down, but not cooked through. But her efforts were vain; the images were burned into her retina. In one movement she swept the covers off her and climbed to her feet. She went to the coat stand, found her phone, and returned to flop down on the bed.

I'm moving out of here as soon as possible. To another hotel, I mean.

She dropped backwards to sprawl and nearly let the device fly from her fingers, but Harold answered almost instantly.

What happened?

I didn't want to risk the lobby because everybody is nude down there, so I ordered room service. Well, they sent a male maid, also naked, and he got hard. I think I frightened him, which is good. I don't know the hell what I'd have done if he offered to fuck me or something.

It's the same here.

An hour later Charlotte descended, ready to brave the City streets again. This time as she passed through the common areas of the hotel, no one gawped or grimaced at her. Only from the reception desk did she receive attention, the same poor sod from earlier. He blushed almost to her own colour as she walked by, his eyes fixed on her chest.

With the sun still low above the horizon, the biting cold was vicious on Charlotte's newly exposed privates. Her nipples rigidified instantly, and she briefly regretted butchering her nice thick coat and all the layers underneath, especially after the hassle on the train. But she had a cunning plan to combat this inconvenience, and so did not back down. It was worth it to be an insignificant dot in the crowd again. She hurried on her way toward the centre of town where the shops must be.

The biggest commercial gallery should only have been about twenty minutes away on foot, but it was still impossible to walk normally. The salting machines were late to do their rounds, and so everywhere on the road and pavements were inconsistent layers of snow, ice, and ice that looked like snow. Charlotte had a mild speed and maneuverability advantage with her spike-sole boots, yet she already saw a visible change in the sun's sluggish climb by the time she was halfway.

It was in the sixth clothing store that Charlotte found her bounty. It was buried deep within the complex, on the top floor, surrounded by dozens of makeup shops. The clientele was sparse, and shared a singular determination in their shopping: everyone knew where they were going and what they wanted to buy. Publicity was probably dependent on word of mouth. A new customer stumbling in like Charlotte was a happy rarity. She was glad of her mild miserliness. Only four full circle cloaks were on sale, each one costing upwards of half what she had expected to spend just staying in town. She bought the cheaper of the two black ones.

Outside, she marveled at her continuing invisibility. No one looked at her except to avoid her. Total coverage under a single sheet of cloth was fine, but not the more practical, habitual alternative. It was nonsense, but then, Charlotte didn't have the rule-book handy. A dreadful thought occurred to her, somebody springing out of the blue and asking her to produce a permit for her modesty. Hopefully she and Harold could find some means of leaving the City before finding out whether the situation was so dire.

The next mission was to deal with Frank. It was Harold's idea to actually go through with it rather than ignore Mrs Oliver. Within the end of the previous day and this morning, he had been "playing along (as per Charlotte's initial advice) quite a bit. He was convinced that the change in social attitude was at least partly dependent on some sort of ****. As luck would have it, he himself was totally immune; otherwise his sanity would have dissolved overnight night, leaving Charlotte alone. Knowing this, he thought Frank might very well be unaffected, hiding out, and a potential ally.

The streets were still sluggish and nearly empty. Kraken Square was deserted, and for most represented an unnaviguable ice sheet that happened to have a statue of the Surgeon General in the middle. Here Charlotte settled, on the steps beneath the monument. Until the salting machines got their arses moving, it would be an ideal spot to conduct the experiment. Sitting down with no one in sight, she got out the phone and pulled up the message stream from Evie. There was a number at the bottom, which the dialing system recognized as valid. Her thumb came within a hair's breadth of triggering the call, when disaster struck.

"Hi..?"