I don't have anything unfinished for Vargas, alas, so here's a snippet I wrote on the spot!


It never feels good to come out of a blackout. What has Scriabin been doing with his body? What stranger is he going to wake up in bed with this time?

He’s not in bed. He’s outdoors. Where is he?

That’s...

That’s the Eiffel Tower.

That’s the Eiffel Tower, right?

“Where are we?” Edgar demands, aloud.

I’ll narrow it down for you, Scriabin says. It’s not Las Vegas, and it’s not Tokyo. I’m sure you can get this if you really try.

“I can’t be in France,” Edgar says, desperate. “I have – I have work, Scriabin.” He starts hunting through his pockets.

Oh, yes, Scriabin says, with deep disdain. Your very important job. What is it that you actually do? It’s so mind-numbing that not even I could tell you, and I literally live in your head.

“Where’s my passport?”

Why do you need it? Scriabin asks. You’re safe here. No serial killers creeping into your life. Nny doesn’t know where you are, and, anyway, can you picture him spending ten hours on a plane without getting arrested?

“Scriabin,” Edgar says. “Where is my passport?”

Oh, Scriabin says, offhand, somewhere in the Seine.