Upon second thought, Crank decides to take the head of the animal named Rex as well. After also giving the ooman female a dose of his aerosol, Crank relieves the dog of its head and then retreats to the electric room to clean it. No point in having the animal follow him when he chooses to foray out into the world.

Crank holds up the polished skulls in the dim light. That of master and servant. He chitters triumphantly and affixes mesh to each one; in order to hang them side-by-side from his implement belt.

Substation 13

Two days later

Several passengers are sitting watching a television. While hundreds of other passengers hustle in and out of various subway trains. On the television, a droll human voice goes on and on about the automotive industry and its decades-old rivalries. The ooman male voice mentions something called a Ford and the legacy of its founder, Henry Ford. Crank can immediately tell that the speaker is biased. When speaking of other manufacturers, the narrator uses an emotionless tone. However, when Ford is mentioned, the voice takes on a more excited pitch. A male passenger sitting on the bench has a different opinion about which manufacturer is the best, and makes it known.

“Ford is a load of crap!” the passenger yells. “Give me a Chevy or a GMC any day!”

Laughter and a few boos fill the substation. Crank, who is in full cloak, turns to study the crowd. As he does so, a young ooman male who is running at top speed, bumps into him. It is like hitting a brick wall. The ooman child spins about ninety degrees before sprawling onto the floor. Crank looks down at the ooman and then moves smoothly out of the way of any other pedestrians.

Another young ooman, a slightly older female, walks over to the male and stands over him. She places her thin hands on her hips and frowns.

“Matt! How many times has mother told you to tie your shoes?” the ooman female says through clenched teeth. “Now, tie them!”

The ooman male does as ordered, but blows a loud raspberry at the ooman female’s retreating back. He climbs to his feet and continues on his way.

Crank returns his attention to the television, where various machines are zipping across the screen. He is particularly interested in the machine called a Mercedes. Doing his best to avoid any other collisions with bustling passengers, Crank leans against the wall and watches the rest of the documentary.

Substation 47

Two inebriated women in tacky clothes bustle into the station. One woman can barely stand, pressing up against the other with half-lidded eyes. Both women laugh drunkenly and half-stumble, half-walk, toward a tall man in a long yellow coat.

“Hey, good looking,” the first woman—a skinny woman with clumpy dreadlocks—says with a chuckle which breaks off into a loud snort. “What you got for me?”

The man looks around before whispering in the women’s direction.

“Not here,” he utters nearly under his breath. “Back through there. I’ve got a key. Come on.”

The women follow him to an abandoned subway entrance marked: “No admittance. Keep Out.” The man opens the door and they all slip inside. He shuts the door behind them, but does not bother to lock it.

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No sooner are they behind closed doors, the first woman starts to feel on the tall man’s chest through his rain slicker. The other woman leans against the nearest wall and slides down it. She is almost nearly unconscious from her alcohol and drug fueled binge.

“So…Where is it?” the dread-haired woman says. She licks the yellow slicker man’s outer earlobe.

The man removes a small packet and a syringe from one of his pockets and grins.

“Right here, baby! For the right price…You can have as much as you want!” the man says coyly.

“Oh really?” the woman says. She immediately slams a knee into the yellow slicker man’s groin. With a sharp gasp, the creep goes down. The woman with dreads kicks him again. This time, in his face. The man cradles his bleeding mouth with a hand and uses the other hand to wave surrender.

“Please, just take it! Don’t kick me again,” the man pleads. “Just take it!”

The woman rears back her high-heeled foot and kicks the tall man again. This time, he doesn’t move. She kicks his unmoving form again and again and again. The last blow is squarely to his head. Crank hears a sickening crunch as the woman steps down hard. She spits on the poor punk’s dead body.

“Sick creep!” the woman yells. Bending over, she searches each of the man’s pockets. The other woman stumbles over and they study the treasures together. The first woman laughs loudly and pulls a thin piece of plastic from the man’s wallet.

“Will you get a load of this guy’s ID photo?” braided woman says. “What Father of the Year material! Somebody get me a toilet so I can puke in it!”

She pretends to get sick and the other woman joins her. With a flick of her wrist, braided woman tosses the empty wallet, and plastic ID, on the ground beside the dead perp. She hands the other woman some green papers and stuffs the rest between her cleavage. Stepping over the body, both women exit through the same door they entered.

Crank walks over to the cooling body of the tall man. He tilts his head and studies both the wallet and the man’s clothes. The ooman females had taken trophies. He had no idea they did such things.

Broad Daylight

Crank climbs the final step and exits the subway, bright sunlight playing across his mask. For a moment, he stands transfixed—personal cloak fully activated. By now, he knows that the hustle and bustle in the ooman tunnels will work to his advantage. The oomans do not even look back, or think twice, when jostled by others of their kind. So busy are they with their pointless travel.

Crank finally steps out of the tunnel and into broad daylight. A man riding a bike, pulling a basket, passes less than a foot in front of the young yautja. Crank watches the man ride off and then continues forward.

He passes by carts where oomans sell plates of heaping food and red rolled meats covered in yellow and red juices. He watches small oomans play on a set of swings, oblivious to anything but joy and elation.

An old ooman zips across the sidewalk in a wheeled chair. Crank wonders if the ooman is some kind of elder or dignitary to possess his own mobile throne chair.

As Crank continues to explore, he finds many of the things the oomans do both fascinating and frustrating. He peeks over the shoulder of an ooman sitting on a bench, and observes a video of several armed men shooting at nothing—their loud screams and the cacophony of their booming weapons grating on his nerves. Shaking his head in irritation, Crank strides quickly away. Such a waste of technology and firepower.

Crank stands for a few moments against a wall, simply observing the bug-like humans in their march to mediocrity. Out of the corner of his eye, he spots a tiny ooman female staring in his direction. Crank turns slowly to look at the child. She does not speak, only continues to stare. Crank verifies that all of his devices are working as intended. To his satisfaction, his cloak is fully functioning and not a single glitch is detected in any of his devices or systems. So how is this ooman able to see him? Can she see him? Is it a coincidence that she is staring exactly in the spot where he stands?

Crank remains absolutely still, not wanting to incite the ooman child’s curiosity any further. With a smile and a tiny wave, the ooman female follows a tall man and another ooman female who are beckoning to her. Crank still does not alter his statue-like stance. The child looks over her shoulder once more, smiles again, and is lost in the crowd. Confusion causes Crank’s heart rate to increase and his mask relays a warning. Too much emotion might generate a phase-out with the facial interface, causing him to become partially visible. He will need to remain calm. It is obvious that the ooman child did in fact see him. But how?

At some point, he will have to consider what he will do if his cover is ever blown.